The Fledglings' Frustration
by Lady Keane
Summary: A slice-of-life continuation of the growing pains of Jane, Daria, Trent and the whole Lawndale gang, post-series. This is something of a dramatised head-canon, full of literary pastiches.
1. Chapter 1

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**A "Daria" fanfic**

(Daria ©MTV. And furthermore, all the subsequent rock lyrics wailed out by Mystik Spiral / Trent / various other merrie minstrels are © their respective composers. I'm just havin' some non-lucrative fun here.

**Chapter I**

"…I dunno, I don't think Parisians could throw any more misanthropy our way than what we've become accustomed to _here._"

"I still say we should pretend to be Australian. Seriously, we'll doff our cork hat thingies to the Frenchies and throw in a few anecdotes about riding kangaroos to school. They'll be all over us."

"Weren't we planning on actually seeing the sights? I could do without a drove of hirsute Frenchmen falling at my feet."

"Speak for yourself, Morgendorffer."

"No thought spared for that shy, slender-hipped blonde boy from your art history tutorials, then?"

"Who, Hayden? Oh, he was a passing fancy."

"Just like the other two before him. Keep up this pace and you'll overtake my sister."

Jane couldn't help but laugh. "_Quinn?_ Only if we're talking about getting boys to max out their dads' credit cards. The most intimate contact she's ever had with another person is sharing the same nail polish with her fellow fashion fiends."

"Suddenly, I feel very nauseous."

It was strangely endearing. Daria wasn't exactly a prude, but Jane couldn't help but muse on how her best friend- so brutally honest and unfailingly inquistive- was as physically timid as some small, wild animal fearful of predators. In fact, both the Morgendorffer sisters seemed to share a revulsion towards intimacy. The only harsh words about Quinn that had ever been (openly) spoken at Lawndale High had been the grumblings of boys in the bloom of high adolescence, their libidos repeatedly stifled by the flighty redhead.

Jane had thought freshman year at college would have helped Daria settle into her own skin a little more. During their time in Boston, there had been weekly reports about like minds, fellow literati and educators who were actually passionate about what they taught. Raft University had sounded, to Jane, like a place where Daria was accepted as one of the group for the very things that had singled her out as a misfit in high school. And yet, twelve months later, here she was. Her outlook just as saturnine, her façade just as stand-offish. There was a certain innocence to her pious proclamations on other peoples' relations. And, happily, it still complemented Jane's worldly, sanguine nature beautifully.

In celebration of completing their first college year unscathed, the two girls had agreed on a two week stay in Paris. They would see the city of lights in true student style: a budget airline, a youth hostel and shared bathrooms. The majority of their carefully hoarded money would go towards trips to museums and galleries, and, in Jane's case, taking advantage of the leniently low legal drinking age. Daria had screwed her nose up at the notion of champagne and absinthe. Jane really did try not to feel smugly maternal over her upon this reaction. After all, Daria got enough of that from her own mother.

"I'll see if we can get away with collapsing in front of the TV with a pizza," Daria murmured, reaching into one of her overstuffed bags and rummaging for her keys.

"Don't count on it, young lady. That matriarchal chieftain of yours will insist on hanging on your every word, as you regale her with stories of how wholesome campus life is," Jane smirked.

The brunette fired off a mock scowl as the two friends dragged themselves through the front door of Casa Morgendorffer.

"Mom? What are you doing here?"

Amanda Lane looked up from her mug of unsweetened tea and smiled broadly at her youngest child. "Hi, sweetheart. How was college?"

"Um, good…"

Subdued in their surprise, the pair allowed a fretfully eager Jake to take their bags and dump them by the staircase. Helen likewise jumped up from her place on the couch next to Amanda, pouncing upon the girls with every bit of the previously predicted parental fervour. "Our girls, home from freshman year! Oh, do come and sit down! Can we get you some tea? Coffee? Snacks?"

Daria really couldn't hate her mother for this. It was admittedly kind of nice to see a demonstration of familial affection, regardless of the suffocating manner of it. She bit her tounge against any acerbic comments as she allowed Helen to drag everyone into the kitchen. The espresso machine was put on again, and hot drinks and nibblies were laid out for the weary travellers.

The three parents leaned across the kitchen table, wholly wrapt in the (at times) sanitised accounts of Raft University and Boston Fine Arts College that Daria and Jane were obliged to share. Some of these were stories that had already been told via the infrequent phone and e-mail communications during the semester, but despite their exhaustion, the girls were feeling charitable enough to recap this old material. The Paris trip was not mentioned. Neither Jane nor Daria really had the energy to touch upon such an act of adult self-determination so soon after returning to the fold.

Helen took over talking once the girls were too hungry to put off a proper repast. As she served up plates of supermarket tagliatelle and delicatessen salad, she reiterated the news of Jake's semi-retirement. Just after Christmas, one of the more dutiful cardiologists from Cedars of Lawndale had reminded Jake that as a middle aged male with somewhat delicate nerves, he was still not entirely out of the woods in respect to his heart attack some years previous. Considering that the Morgendorffers had one child off to college and another on the verge of going, Helen had decided that the family income could afford to shrink a little. Jake had already shut down his firm and was now a part-time consultant at a middling business downtown. Of course, this had translated into a smaller allowance for Daria. But for the sake of propping up her father's (somewhat) ailing condition, not to mention the prospect of scaling the stairs of Montmartre, the girl magnificently conceded to settle for economising.

"Your mother also has some big news, Jane," Helen announced, turning her expectant grin on Amanda. The woman was fiddling with one of her dangly hand-made earrings, an absent smile on her face, her store-bought meal untouched.

"Excellent," Jane declared. "Didya finally master the finer points of slipcasting in porcelain?"

Amanda shook her head placidly in response. "Actually, honey, it's something way better."

Daria saw Amanda's gaze meet with Helen's, and her gut seized. In the absence of the daughters, it seemed the mothers had been conspiring…

"Helen introduced me to a fabulous woman by the name of Deena Decker."

"That time management consultant?" Daria couldn't help blurting out.

"Actually, Daria, Ms. Decker is now a financial advisor," Helen corrected.

"So she finally realised that time is money." The quip went ignored.

"Oh, she's brilliant," Amanda continued. "She helped Vincent and I to track down all our scattered equity and superannuation. Did you know that I qualify as a small business owner? And I can claim all my pottery expenses back on my tax return?"

Daria and Jane shared a look. Amanda Lane talking of tax returns definitely portended ill.

"Vincent and I have always wanted to move out to Arizona and build our own eco-friendly adobe. And that dream is finally becoming a reality!"

"Keeping up with the Joneses," Daria monotoned.

"Anything but," Amanda replied with a chuckle. "Oh, it will be such a change of pace to finally get out of the suburbs."

"Um, Mom?" Jane's fine eyebrows crinkled.

"Wait until you see the quality of light in the Southwest, Jane. I'm sure you're bound to be just as inspired to create as I was when I first went."

The younger Lane woman drew in a sharp breath before asking her next question. "And… what about _our_ house? As in, the one here in Lawndale?"

Amanda waved a carefree hand. "Oh, we're selling that old place. Its land value has skyrocketed since the seventies. The realtor told me that he's already got someone who's keen on the property to demolish and rebuild."

However, there was to be at least some mercy that evening. Sort of. Responding to Jane's deer-in-the-threshing-machine expression, Helen spoke up: "Oh, don't worry, Jane. Jakey and I talked it over, and we'll be happy to install you in the spare room if you'd prefer to spend the Summer here."

"Yeah, we wouldn't dream of splitting up the dynamic duo," Jake helped, in an overly sprightly tone. "You can contribute by helping me set the table for dinner, Jane-o!"

Jane's pupils only contracted further.

"Be that as it may, young lady," Amanda intoned, doing a passable imitation of Helen's authoritative tone, "You are going to get a Summer job. Your father and I just won't have the funds to spare while we're working on the adobe, especially considering we won't have the time to work on any new art projects. You will pay board to Helen and Jake, and be responsible for your own money at college next year. Consider this a lesson in voluntary minimalism, something that every artist needs to be versed in. I know you'll make me proud."

Once she had the faculty to move again, Jane needed to lean on Daria's arm as the two escaped to the confines of the padded bedroom upstairs. It seemed that the inevitable had happened: The one mother in Lawndale who had been agreeably blasé and laid back had finally succumbed to the prevailing trend of being an ambitious, asset-driven task master.

Listlessly flopped upon her stripped mattress, Daria regretfully tore up the well-thumbed brochure on France she had picked up from the travel agent. _"Au revoir, Paris,"_ she exhaled.

Jane was balled up on Daria's desk chair, in the closest thing to a foetal position that she could manage. "A _Summer job,_" she lamented. "Just when I thought I'd escaped the stupid suburban impositions of Lawndale to live _la vie boheme,_ life has to crap out on me and remind me just how _bourgeois_ my roots really are."

"And you get to spend it with my family, to boot," Daria said apologetically. "I don't suppose it makes any difference if I offer penitence on behalf of my mother… I think whatever fever _your_ mom has could only be due to unsupervised contact with a high strung, middle class attorney."

"If only she had your inborn immunity to it," Jane replied.

The girls spent the rest of the evening balming their blight with a hearty dosage of 'Sick Sad World'.

_"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose,"_ Daria thought to herself.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

"Life sucks!" Trent bemoaned, moodily swiping at the strings of his guitar with long fingers.

Jane raised an eyebrow. "Well. Even though Mom and Dad have lost their minds, it's good to see that _you_ haven't sold out your disaffected Gen-X values."

The Lane siblings were hanging out with Daria and Jesse, sprawled across a collection of patched, overstuffed sofas in the granny flat at the back of the Moreno family's property. Just as Jane was now at the mercy of the Morgendorffers, Trent had moved in with his own best friend, instructed by Amanda to pay board. Jesse's mother had a somewhat more indulgent attitude, insisting on stuffing Trent with home-cooked meals and doing his laundry without any expectation of recompensation. She did, however, agree that some form of regular employment would be a steadying influence on the young man.

"My dad's gotten him a job at the Payday," Jesse explained. "He's gotta wear a uniform and everything."

"What about the Spiral?" Jane queried.

"Indefinite hiatus," Trent said mournfully, hunching further over his guitar. "Funny thing is, I kinda felt we'd reached a creative block anyway. And Nick has mentioned he wants to spend more time with his kid."

Jane shrugged. "Maybe the time out will revive the collective muse."

All Trent could do was shudder. "A wage slave. Ew. Next thing you know I'll be applying to business school or something."

"I don't think so," came a clear, even voice from the corner.

All heads turned to Daria. "Come on, Trent. It's obvious how passionate you are about your music, no temporary day job could take that away from you. There are plenty of successful musicians who had to do monkey work when they were starting out. I once read that Pavarotti used to work as an insurance salesman. Besides, to make it as a professional, you need to have some sense of time management and responsibility. A record label isn't gonna want to sign a band that can't keep to a schedule, whether it be a studio recording or a world tour. Why not learn those skills now while you're undergoing an artistic dry spell? And get paid while doing it?"

Trent was silent for a long while, his dark eyes drifting out the window behind Daria's head. Jane tensed a little. Her brother had a very long fuse, but she could swear that such a blunt reprimand against his bohemian slacker ideals was due to incite a reaction.

"You know…" he finally said, his voice deep and deliberate, "…I never thought about it like that."

The other three did something of a double take.

"It would be nice to have a steady source of cash. For, you know, gas money and stuff. And maybe entering the Underworld of capitalist greed will give me new inspiration for my music. Because, like, pain is beauty."

"You'll be a regular Orpheus," Daria remarked, her rare half-smile making an appearance.

"You really are one of the smartest people I know, Daria," Trent affirmed.

Daria mumbled an incoherent thanks, and Jane swore she detected the lightest shadow of a rosy hue tinge the girl's pale cheeks. Oh dear. Surely not!

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

"Of course not," Daria asserted, folding her Pizza King serviette into a cheese-stained origami crane. "It's not like I asked for his hand in marriage, I just spoke my mind to him. You know, like I do with pretty much everyone?"

Was it Jane's wishful thinking, or was that tone of voice more than a little defensive? "Even so, Daria, it _did_ sound like the words of someone who cares about him."

"I care for him by proxy. He's your brother," the brunette pointed out.

"So is Wind, but I've never seen you offer him marriage advice."

"Oh, shut up, Lane." She rolled her eyes from behind her thick lenses.

Even after all this time, Jane never failed to be intrigued by this soft spot of Daria's. Having been witness to what was obviously the clever girl's first attraction to a boy, and the frequent fluster that this resulted in, had made Jane realise just how serious her vigil against vulnerability was. Many other people had been put off by this. As for Jane, it had made her appreciate that the things Daria deigned to share with the lucky few in her closest circle were a gift given with the deepest sincerity.

"Oh, hey!" The girls' heads turned at the sudden salutation by a familiar voice.

Tom Sloane slid down next to Daria in the dining booth, easing his way with a smile that was straining to be affable. "How've you two been?"

A self-conscious "Hey, Tom" glossed over the abrupt awkwardness of the meeting. As the three diners picked at their pizzas, a string of anecdotes about college life were exchanged. The BFAC and Raft stories were so old hat by this stage, that the girls were able to weave the narratives on auto-pilot. They both listened a little too keenly to Tom's tales of life at Bromwell. It seemed Tom was mostly trying to play down the atmosphere of privelege, and criticising it thoroughly when he had no choice but to acknowledge it. An unsettled silence followed the close of the updates, which was artlessly filled in by munching on a second helping of pizza, and the odd wisecrack about the latest homogenised Hollywood blockbusters released for the Summer.

Just as Daria was gaining momentum in eviscerating the latest Americanized trussing of Dickens' 'David Copperfield', the strident whine of a ringtone split the air.

"Pardon," Tom mumbled, retrieving his phone from his pocket and retreating to a corner of the restaurant.

"Well isn't this a warm and cozy reunion," Daria asided softly.

Jane also kept her voice down. "What do you expect, Daria? Now he's both your ex and mine. Made even more distant by a year at a snooty ivy league college. Maybe he's just trying to revive the glory days when he provoked your temper instead of your unease."

"I suppose so," Daria sighed.

Tom returned to the table. "That was my girlfriend Felicity. She's picking me up to go see a movie at Playhouse 99."

"Your girlfriend?" Jane gaped.

"Yeah, Felicity. We met in a lecture on macro-economic theory. She's in a sorority."

"What are you going to see?" Daria asked.

"Um, the new 'David Copperfield'," Tom replied. "She's never read Dickens and I thought it might be a good layman's introduction for her."

"Because nothing sets the mood for the workhouses of Victorian England like a stream of Californian accents," Daria jeered.

A nervous laugh escaped Tom's mouth.

At long last, at the sound of his girlfriend honking her sporty coupe from without, Tom made a break for the restaurant doors with a subdued "See ya 'round."

"Well, that was painful," Jane remarked needlessly.

Daria frowned. "I feel kinda bad for the guy. It's obvious he doesn't want to turn into just another trust fund snot, but dating ditzy sorority girls seems to just be hammering the proverbial nails into that very coffin." She slumped forward in her seat, tearing apart the now wilting origami crane. "It would have been nice, if just once, I could have felt completely comfortable around him."

Jane started a little at this. "You never felt comfortable with him?"

Daria shook her head.

"But you went out with him for twice as long as I did. I just assumed you would have settled into the relationship."

"I _really_ liked him," Daria insisted. "He was so nice, and we had so much in common, and he tried so damned hard to make things work between us. To make us a proper boyfriend and girlfriend. But… I guess I just never really felt it. It probably would have worked out better if we'd just been friends."

Things began ticking over in Jane's mind. "I see," she murmured, and she chewed on her remaining crust of godfather supreme, contemplating. "Maybe… maybe the initial attraction had more to do with forbidden fruits."

Daria crossed her arms. "If you dredge up any more Biblical metaphors, I'm leaving the table."

Jane laughed. "Okay, okay. But think about it. He was the first attractive male you'd ever met who had a sense of humour and interests identical to your own. And, at first, he was off limits. Maybe that was the appeal."

"Okay," Daria answered, a wary edge to her voice.

"But look at you now. At Raft, you can't move for the legions of bookish hunks. You've built an acquaintance with many, and none of them strike your fancy."

This rationale made Daria consider a very ghastly idea. "Oh God," she moaned, "I'm more like Quinn than I thought. Stealing my best friend's date and keeping other guys at arm's length? I may as well dye my hair red and start obsessing over heeled shoes.

"Hey, hey, hey, you're reading too much into this!" Jane cried. "What I was _going_ to say was that there was no lasting chemistry between you and Tom. You two gave it a shot and found there wasn't enough to sustain the relationship. If there was, you would have somehow managed to bridge the distance at college. No matter how gaping it was. And instead of that Felicia or Felicity or whoever, Tom would be taking _you_ to see 'David Copperfield' tonight."

"Perish the thought," Daria shuddered.

"See? It just wasn't meant to be. Don't feel guilty if you're not still hung up on him. It doesn't make you shallow."

Daria sighed into her now flat soda. "I see your point. Truth be told, if I'm pining for anything, it's the days at your old house when I used to hang out with you guys. Now that the place is gonna be demolished, it's like our one truly safe haven in Lawndale is gone."

"What do you mean, 'us guys'?" Jane inquired, a leer starting to form on her lips.

"Who else? You and Trent, of course," Daria regretted the words the moment she had uttered them.

"Sounds like you're hung up on _someone,_ alright!"

"_Now_ who's reading too much into things?"

Feeling both merciful and talked-out, Jane decided to let it go.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

As Jane brushed her teeth in the Morgendorffer sisters' bathroom that night, listening to the high-pitched strains of Quinn chattering on the phone and Helen and Jake bickering downstairs, she reflected on what Daria had said about the old house. It _was_ the ultimate refuge during their high school years. As difficult a time as adolesence had been, it was hard not to feel nostalgic for those many afternoons. The pungent smell of linseed as she worked at her easel. Her best friend drooping over a novel on the bed, supplying colour commentary on whatever events were transpiring at school. The indecipherable droning of Mystik Spiral's practice sessions occasionally floating up from the basement. Those moments were nothing if not content.

Jane had seldom needed to worry about money. Though appearances suggested otherwise, the Lane family did quite well financially. Vincent's work as a photographer, despite the irregular schedule it commanded, was respectably lucrative. Jane always maintained a silent pride that her father's panoramic shots of far flung wildernesses often made it into magazines like National Geographic. It was only during the odd dry spell in his workload that making ends meet became a more pressing priority. Though most of the family income went into Vincent's extensive international travels, there was almost always enough in the savings account to at least pay the bills and maintain a supply of TV dinners, wonder bread and junk food. As the Lane children had grown up and left home, their parents had become increasingly preoccupied with their respective careers. By the time Jane was sixteen, the upkeep of the house had mostly been left to she and Trent.

And now, Vincent and Amanda had deemed themselves genuine empty-nesters. Jane was a college student- the first in the family- and Trent was pushing twenty-five. They were now adults themselves. After raising five rowdy children, her parents were forsaking their disused home that had once been brimming with commotion, to finance their escape to the peace of the painted desert.

Replacing her tootbrush, the raven-haired artist looked her reflection square in the eye. She decided that she would manage this. The independence that had been inadvertently cultivated in her meant she was well prepared. If Trent, king of the layabouts, had resolved to hold down employment, then she would too. She still had the business card for Gary's Galleries in her wallet. Tomorrow, she would touch base with the old fellow. The reproductions she had done during high school had paid good money, and this Summer would allow plenty of time to rake in a healthy wad of savings.

"Look out, adult working world," she declared, raising a resolute fist, "here comes Jane Lane!"

Walking by the bathroom door, Quinn made a face. "Whatever. Weirdo."


	2. Chapter 2

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**Chapter II**

"Aw, hell."

The neat rows of vaccum-sealed rice crackers and instant noodles stared blankly back at Daria and Jane through the shop window. Even in the bright summer sunshine, the fluroescent lights still glinted from within. The space that had once been Gary's Gallery was now a convenience store.

"The bottom fell out of the reproductions business, Jane," came Gary's dejected voice over the crackle of a bad cellphone connection. "After that big gift store came to the mall, we had no choice but to close down. How am I supposed to compete with limited edition plates and Hummel figurine knock-offs? This is Lawndale!"

"Bummer," Jane muttered.

"I'm working in insurance now. Gotta make ends meet somehow. Sorry, kid."

"No matter, then. Thanks anyway. Send Pavarotti my love."

"Huh?"

"'Bye, Gary."

"So… what now?" Daria asked.

Jane sighed. "Maybe I can join Trent, and spend all my time mopping the aisles of the Payday." She dragged her hands over her ebony bob, trying to push down her rising frustration. "But seriously. I've gotta be smart about this. If I can't get money through painting, then what's the best way for an art student with bugger-all experience to earn some bread?"

"Offer to donate your organs?" Daria suggested.

"Laugh now, princess, but one day Helen and Jake may decide to cast you out in the cold. Alone, starving, freezing…"

"Jane, it's eighty-five degrees. And you had two rounds of sugar tarts for breakfast."

The corner of Jane's mouth curled. "…Whispering Trent's name over and over again…"

"Screw you, Oliver Twist."

The wheeze of an old car horn cut through the muggy afternoon air. Jane looked up.

"Speak of the devil…"

Daria raised an eyebrow. "That better not be Oliver Twist offering us a ride just now."

The look upon Trent's face was disconcerting to say the least. Mouth set in a tight grimace, angular eyebrows knitted together… for the first time in a long time, the young man was genuinely stressed.

"How was your first day at work?" Jane asked delicately.

"Horrible. Get in," he directed, and both his sister and Daria felt no inclination to object.

The decrepit old Plymouth caromed off with a protesting roar, and the two girls in the back seat surreptitiously clung on to the torn grey upholstery. After a few minutes of violently veering through the suburban streets, they screeched to a stop on a familiar patch of road.

The car shook as Trent slammed his door shut. Jane and Daria silently followed.

High mesh fencing had been erected around the borders of a residential lot. At its gate was clustered a small group of construction workers, as well as a tall man in a crisp business suit.

"Hey, I recognise you girls! Brittany's little friends, right? You still keep in touch? She's made it onto the cheer squad at Great Prairie State."

The unctious voice belonged to Steve Taylor, Brittany's father and one of the most vulgar philistines to ever move up into the socio-economic bracket of new money.

"So you're the guy who bought up this plot of land," Trent hissed.

"Sure did. Boy did I score! Did you ever see the rundown, post-war weatherboard thing that was still standing here before? This is one of the most sought-after neighborhoods on the Eastern Seaboard, and some pair of aging hippies were holding onto the old dump for God knows what. We're gonna be constructing a brand new designer home here, all wide windows and multistory columns."

"Great. 'Cause we wouldn't want an eyesore disgracing this neighborhood, would we." Jane retorted, finding herself growing more poisonous by the second.

Steve placed a beringed hand on each Lane sibling's shoulder. "Here's a tip, kids. University degrees are all well and good, but if you learn the ins and outs of the the realty market, you'll be set for life."

And with a supercilious chuckle, he climbed into a nearby BMW sedan and cruised off.

Peering through the mesh, Daria, Jane and Trent dolefully surveyed the chaotic pile of wood and broken brickwork, currently being transferred into large skips by an army of construction vehicles.

"Home sweet home," Trent eulogised, looking his last upon Casa Lane.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Jane wasn't prepared for the shock of losing her childhood home. For so long, the goal had been to get out of Lawndale and begin a self-assured career as a celebrated artist in one of the world's great metropolises. But every time the house surfaced in her memory, it summoned yet another godawfully treasured association. Midnight pancake experiments. Being the test audience for the Spiral's new material. Bitching sessions with Daria. The first ever time she held a paintbrush in her hands.

Greater still was what the house had signified. Even though having all five Lane kids cohabiting under its roof was only tolerable for about half a nanosecond, knowing that it was there as a place to return to, a place that connected them all in their idiosyncratic paths across the world, an anchor of connectivity… Now that it was gone, Summer, Wind, Penny, Trent and Jane were just five disparate individuals. Whose parents had tucked themselves away in some obscure corner of a far-flung desert. The youngest Lane really had underestimated how much how much all this had served as the foundation of her identity. The unconventional baby of an unconventional family.

Now, in every sense of the word, she was homeless.

"Jane?"

"Mmf?"

"Are you feeling okay? You didn't come down to dinner."

"Mmf."

"Can I turn the light on?"

"Whutevr."

Helen held her tounge when she saw how dishevelled the young lady had allowed herself to become. For a number of days, the job hunt had been postponed. The girls had spent long hours upstairs talking, and Helen had tried not to listen in. A few days' mourning was certainly a reasonable contingency, but it had now been almost two weeks.

She perched herself on a chair near the bed, making an effort not to seem intrusive.

"You know, I went back to Texas on a business trip last year. I was able to take a detour through Highland, and I saw that the little ranch house Daria and Quinn were born and raised in—"

"—Had been replaced by some obscene McMansion," Jane finished.

Helen chose to say nothing in response.

"The difference is, Mrs M, they still have a home to return to. Now that _Vincent and Amanda_ have pissed off to build their little desert refuge, they probably won't care if they ever hear from me again. They managed to support most of their kids until they were independent. That was good enough for them, I suppose. Screw the stragglers, right?"

Disregarding the foul language, Helen suddenly felt very touched. This had been the most Jane had ever opened up to her. Perhaps in the absence of a maternal figure whom she was prepared to trust, the girl simply needed a sympathetic ear.

Helen unclasped her hands. "While she was over here, Amanda couldn't stop boasting about her youngest child making it into college."

Jane didn't exactly turn around to face her, but she at least shifted upon the mattress.

"I sympathise with you, Jane, but there is no doubt in my mind that your parents still love you as much as they ever did. In fact, their primary concern about this move to Arizona was wondering whether you and Trent would be alright. Ultimately, their decision was based on their faith in the two of you. You're blessed with talent and passion. They both came to the conclusion that this may be the very push you and your brother need to help you assert yourselves in the world."

Jane flopped over onto her back, face turned to the ceiling. "I guess," she mumbled.

"And this adobe of theirs is going to have two ample guest rooms. Once it's finished, I think you'll have to try pretty hard to stop them from dragging you and Trent down to visit."

Jane felt a light breeze from the open window waft over her face, and indulged in a deep, expansive breath.

"Amanda and Vincent are simply following a shared dream of theirs. And I think a part of it involves pushing you and Trent into following your own dreams, too."

Jane's blue eyes darted in the matriarch's direction.

"As long as it's not one of those dreams involving talking dogs and giant floating eyeballs," she countered.

Helen smiled, taking the sassy response as a sign of revival.

"There's some leftover cob salad in the fridge," she said gently as she rose from the chair.

Jane stretched, hauled herself up and smiled into the darkness.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Pulling the tab on a can of soda, Jane studied the list of want-ads before her. Apart from papier-mâché and lining catboxes, the Lawndale Shopper did have other occasional uses. Most of the job search sites on-line were no good: entering every variation on 'entry level temp' into their search engines resulted in the same old positions of full-time corporate account managers, secretaries, and make-up counter girls at Cashman's. The usual Summertime grunt jobs didn't even get a mention.

Jane was hoping for a part-time position at an art store, but there was only once such place locally, on Dega Street. She would basically have to wait until the married couple who owned it decided to pack it in and pull a Vincent & Amanda Lane on Lawndale.

"Don't apply at the Payday, whatever you do," Trent had warned her. "You have to deal with angry customers all day, and the manager is a freakin' sadistic pedant Nazi." Jane had smiled and nodded, taking this as Trent-speak for somebody organised who owned a wristwatch. Her brother was still not talking to their parents. She wondered to herself how long it would be until he got fired.

"What you need to do," Daria said from across the kitchen table whilst jotting down notes in a ledger, "Is look for the easiest, lowest stress job that involves the least amount of skill. If they're going to pay you minimum wage, you may as well put in minimum effort."

"Now what kind of attitude is that, kiddo?" Was Jake's response from his station at the hotplate. He spent Thursdays and Fridays at home now, and was whipping up a trial batch of Thai red curry for lunch.

"The attitude of a fair day's pay for a fair day's work," his daughter monotoned, for once not intending any irony.

"Now that's more like it!" Jake exclaimed, before singeing his hand on a wok and swiftly turning to curse into the sink.

"Hey…" Jane struck her biro upon a little square of text sandwiched between a wedding announcement and an ad for a conspicuously reputable Asian massage parlour. "What about this…?"

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

The manager was laughable. At orientation, he tried to give off an authoritative demeanour, but was ultimatley about as imposing as an indignant house fly. He buzzed in Jane's ear about dedication, work ethic and presenting a responsible corporate image, before realising that he believed none of what he was saying himself. He tossed Jane an ill-fitting uniform and buzzed off.

Shaking off the last spells of sleep, Jane set her eyes on the horizon as she entered the small shopping strip. Even at this early hour, fumes of nitrate-laced grease were wafting out of Pizza King, and when she drew them in, a feeling of affection for the place washed over her.

She wondered what sort of deadbeat she'd be working with. Probably some unwashed super slacker who made Trent look like a seargeant major. She wasn't anticipating stimulating conversation, but she was happy to take this option of mind-numbing tedium over back-breaking, spirit-crushing hard labour. Especially at nine dollars an hour.

Indulging in one more illicit sniff of fast food, she walked past Pizza King and entered the Lackluster Video shop next door.

Oh yeah, she'd be livin' la vida Kevin Smith this Summer.

Predictably, it being nine a. m. on a Monday morning, the place was deserted. Her new co-worker wasn't even behind the counter. After a few apprehensive moments of waiting in silence, she decided to make herself known.

"Uh… excuse me? Anyone back there…? I…"

There was a shuffling noise in the back room.

"I ass_ume_ that you'll be the new college kid temping here over Summer _break,_ because not even the lowest kind of _loser_ would be randomly skulking around a _video_ shop on a weekday _morning_…"

The other video clerk emerged, and scrutinised Jane's features.

"Ms. _Lane?_ Well well well, saving up for more _art_ supplies, I presume."

No way. No freakin' way.

"…Mister Demartino?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**Chapter III**

Given that history was a humanities subject rather than a science, Jane had usually managed to maintain a respectable average of B minuses, Bs, and occasionally, B pluses throughout high school. Although developing an eloquent, well organised argument about what caused the downfall of the Napoleonic Empire was not something she took to with total ease and grace, she had genuinely enjoyed tracing the map of the collective human story. And all the scandals, intrigue, bloodshed and psychoses therein.

There was also another reason that Jane had made an effort to stay afloat in this subject. Upon observing the look in Mister Demartino's startlingly fierce eyes, she recalled that there had been the exact same glint in the eyes of the Alsatian at the local junkyard. (That damned dog had it in for innocent artists who were merely browsing the scrapheap for interesting sculpture materials.) She recalled how Lawndale High had buzzed with gossip about how this man slept on a bed of nails, ate broken glass for breakfast and used sheets of sandpaper instead of toilet rolls. And remembering a few incidents in which he had quite literally strangled Kevin Thompson, the blockheaded quarterback, it was obvious this conjecture had not come from nowhere.

Jane had always been one of the students that Mister Demartino had paid little heed of. Which probably meant that she was also one of the students that he hated the least.

And here he was, standing before her dressed in the loud primary colours of Lackluster Video's logo. Her colleague and her equal.

"I'm _flattered_ that you take some _surprise_ in seeing me here. I won't go to the trouble of _boring_ you with a wearisome and ponderous _rationale_ as to my change of _vocation_."

Jane unfroze, finally retrieving the power of speech. "Actually… I'm actually curious… actually." Well, a tenuous grip upon speech, at least.

Demartino let out a low, gravelly chuckle. "Perhaps that can _wait_ until after we've _acquainted_ you with the _running_ of the store."

"It runs? I thought a video store would be more inclined to lay around scratching its butt," Jane riposted, blessing the thaw of her mental faculties.

"_Frankly,_ young lady, that will be the greater part of your _duties_ in this job."

Within the hour, he had explained the rental process, opening and closing, cleaning, upkeep and store policy to Jane. Within the second hour, all the duties for the day had been completed, and the both of them were left with nothing to do but atrophy in their place behind the counter, and listen to the hushed, insipid hum of the fluroescent lights.

"So," Jane piped up, leaning her arms on the countertop, "now you have no option but to reveal the sordid details of how you went from student wrangler to… er…"

"…VHS pimp?" Demartino suggested.

"That's the one."

"I think it's no secret that my enthusiasm for teaching finished its final death throes _years_ ago," he pronounced. "The stranglehold that Ms. Li had on that gulag of a school… the overwhelming apathy of the pupils… I was fighting a losing battle from day one. Not even teaching the few smart kids could offer job satisfaction. I figured they were gonna be clever and hard-working whether it was me teaching 'em, or some other schmuck. The tipping point came when Kevin Thompson flunked senior year… Just the _thought_ of trying to get that punk to exert one single atom of intellectual energy… ugh. I just couldn't face another _day_ of that."

Jane had absolutely no trouble in appreciating this.

"I've been working odd jobs in the past year, just trying to regroup. Centre myself, y'know."

And truth be told, when Jane compared her memory of Demartino to the man now standing before her, he did appear to be a good deal more serene. The tic in his eye (which had been a notorious subject of fun for his students) had lessened considerably, and there seemed to be a healthier flush to his complexion, which was not as pale and peaky as before. And as for his disposition— as astonishing as it was— at this space and point in time… he was undoubtedly what Jane could call _pleasant_.

"What sort of jobs have you been doing?" She couldn't help but ask. A part of her was suddenly very curious, both to unravel this odd individual's history, and to see how far she could delve before Demartino put the barriers up.

"Shipping," he answered, "down at the harbour in the city. It's somethin' I did a lot of when I was young. Hard physical work, but good pay and lots of sea air. I've still got a position down there two days a week. This job is really just a filler."

"Two days a week? Why only two days if you like it so much?" Jane quizzed.

"Downsizing."

"Damn, that sucks."

"That's _life_, Ms Lane. Even in this position, I'm inclined to count my blessings."

"I suppose that's the wisest thing to do. I mean, jeez, just imagine if you were one of those underpaid, overstressed _high school_ teachers."

"Losers, you mean."

The pair shared a liberating laugh.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

"…And he said that he recalled a certain bright bespectacled student of his, who once pointed out that the paychecks of a high school teacher and a video clerk are not dissimilar. You're an inspiration, Daria."

"Stop. I'm blushing," Daria monotoned. "Are you really sure you're comfortable working with him? I mean, not only is he a teacher, but of all the unbalanced weirdos who were charged with our welfare, he's the one I'd be most afraid to be stuck in a confined space with."

"_Former_ teacher," Jane corrected. "And you know me, I enjoy living dangerously. Besides, he's got a wicked sense of humor… Speaking of living dangerously, whaddaya say to a ten pound tub of sour gummi worms?"

The girls were standing in the confectionery aisle of the Payday. Daria was trying desperately not to inhale while she allowed Jane to drag her down the scratched linoleum passageways, lined by gargantuan stacked crates of breakfast cereals and lighter fluid.

"That much corn syrup and titanium dioxide could probably kill a man," Daria commented. "Can we just get your damed art supplies and get outta here already?"

Jane shifted the tub of sweets to her right arm and checked her watch. "Hm. Three forty-seven. I reckon we've got plenty of time before we need to buzz off."

"Why?" Daria asked, while deftly dodging two housewife-driven shopping wagons, stacked with palletes of economy-sized fishsticks and Ritalin.

"Trent's got the night shift tonight," Jane explained. "He said he's starting at four today, so we probably have at least an hour before we risk running into him."

Daria nodded slowly. "Don't wanna cause any more damage to his self-image, huh?"

"I feel so sorry for the dope," Jane replied. "It's humiliating enough that he's so bad at such a simple job, but it would compound matters if his loved ones saw him here."

"Loved ones?" Daria made a face.

"You heard me, Morgendorffer."

"Daria? Jane? Is that you?" Came a resonant baritone from behind a nearby shelf of kegs of maple syrup.

"Woah. Mack? What's a respectable young man like you doing in a garment like that?"

Indeed, across Mack's broad shoulders was draped the telltale apron of a Payday employee. He set down the colossal sack of aspirin he was carrying and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"My Dad insisted on me taking a Summer job. Said that no university degree could prepare me for the reality of earning a regular salary. He's convinced that there's no better primer for success in the business world than stacking gigantic shelves and cleaning up kids' vomit."

"It must be something in the drinking water," Daria conspired. "It's making the adults of this town even more crazy than before. We oughta get Sick Sad World to cover it."

"Huh?" Mack frowned at Daria, wondering whether the oppressive heat was getting to either him or Daria.

"My parents have pushed my brother and I into mandatory employment too," Jane explained to him.

Mack's face suddenly brightened. "Oh, yeah! Trent's great, Jane! He and I do a lot of shifts together."

"These shifts. Do they include lots of five-hour naps?" Daria asked flatly.

"No way, Trent's one of the best workers on the team," Mack responded, a spark of admiration in his voice. "He's able to take Bryant the Tyrant's commands with this incredible patience. And whenever another team member's struggling to get everything finished on time, Trent always steps in to help. Last week, I accidentally broke this massive jar of baby gherkins. Five seconds later, Bryant the Tyrant came walking by, and Trent stepped forward and took the blame. It was taken outta his paycheck, but I settled the score after work by buying him a round at Pizza King."

That did it. Whether it was the heat, exhaustion or a spiked drinking water supply, something must have been getting to poor Mack.

"Trent _Lane?_" Jane quizzed, agog. "Tall, skinny, peircings and tatts? Untidy sideburns?"

"Yeah. Really decent, hard-working guy."

"MACKENZIE!"

The three cohorts turned to behold a squat, middle-aged man with watery eyes and the complexion of a sunburned lobster.

"I thought I told you to get on with the replenishment! If you stand around flirting with my customers one second longer, you'll be put on cleaning duties for the next two weeks!"  
>"Yes, Mr. Bryant."<p>

"Honestly, you uppity college boys are all useless slugs," Bryant snapped, twitching from what looked like nicotine withdrawal. "Reading all those fruity books gives you this crazy sense of entitlement. Dumb workhorses like that Lane kid are what this country needs more of."

Something in Jane blew a fuse.

She strode past Bryant, purposefully dropping the copious tub of gummi worms squarely on the Tyrant's foot. "Whoopsie," she sing-songed.

As the little man yelped in pain, the worms burst from their vessel and scattered across the floor in a rainbow avalanche.

"Looks like reading all those fruity college books must have impaired my motor skills," the girl taunted, venom in her tone. "Mack, I look forward to seeing you again at a less infernal venue. Come on Daria, let's never shop here again."

"How long I have waited to hear those blessed words," Daria declared, joining Jane in a dignified exit.

Mack and Bryant watched the pair leave, both equally astonished.

"I'm impressed, Lane. That was quite a feat," Daria marvelled.

"That nasty little shrimp got what was coming to him. I only hope Mack isn't forced to clean up those worms tonight—"

Jane's thought was arrested when she felt someone's gaze on her.

Trent was heading through the doors of the Payday, ten minutes early for his shift. His face was the very picture of misery and resignation.

After an agonising moment of reflexive staring, the two young women tore their eyes away from him. Wordlessly, they hurried their way into the street.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Jane's insides wouldn't stop pulsating with a nauseating mix of guilt and pity. Over the next few days, she her mind continuously roved to thoughts of her brother. In spite of his usual lax attitude and shameless incompetence at all things sensible, he was still by far her favourite sibling. From Trent, Jane had learned what true benevolence was. The young man seemed to make time for everyone who came his way. (True, this was partially because his lack of enterprise meant that he _had_ plenty of time on his hands, but even so.) Underneath that sleep-encrusted stupor was a gentle and poetic soul, which was currently being crushed under the loafers of an arrogant little man with a dictator complex (Whether he was more reminiscent of Napoleon, Goebbels or Tom Cruise, Jane couldn't decide).

Perhaps, finally, he had decided to improve himself, to remedy that one great Achilles' heel that had kept him from attaining a stable lifestyle. But why had he decided the only way to do so was by torturing himself in such an unpleasant, degrading job? Surely there were a dozen businesses on Dega Street that would have jumped at the chance to hire him, were he to apply the same work ethic? Axl at the peircing parlour, the groovy young things at the Funky Doodle, not to mention the bar work on offer at McGrundy's brew pub and the Zōn. Was his resolve to stay at the Payday some kind of twisted self-punishment? Or had he finally given up on all the bohemian ideals that he'd once held so dear?

It only made matters worse when Jane realised what an easy ticket her own job was. Most of the day was spent sharing chit chat with Mister Demartino or the other clerk who worked there: a spindly guy named Artie, who had a knack for telling colourful stories about UFOs and little green men. Jane would zone out as this boy ranted on, doodling in her sketchbook and nodding every once in a while to give the impression she was listening. Even during the weekend afternoon 'rush', the only thing that really succeeded in keeping Jane awake was the abundant supply of caffeinated drinks on hand in the fridge next to the junk food stand (the only people who ever seemed to purchase these were the staff).

A day came when there was actual work to be done. The manager oversaw the delivery of a load of carboard boxes, instructing Jane and Demartino to clear a space on the shelf at the front of the store. The task of compressing the collection of worn and weathered VHS cases into a smaller area, opening and sorting through the sleek new stock, and placing each item into recently designated categories on the freshly cleaned shelves was lengthy and repetetive. But still, it didn't really consitute what one would deem 'labour'. Jane took to the job with a preoccupied mind and a dispirited heart. She wondered what kind of heavy lifting, revolting mess or general abuse Trent would be facing at that moment.

"DVD," Demartino read off the side of one of the thin plastic cases. "I wonder what _these_ are going to be routinely replaced with in ten years' time. Maybe they'll find a way of simply feeding movies into the zombified public's _brains_."

"Mm, probably." Jane dropped a DVD of 'Miss Congeniality' into the horror section.

"I suppose the fun is now in watching the death throes of the video cassette," Demartino mused. "There'll probably be a point in the future where the ones that can't be sold as ex-rental will be up for grabs for microwave art and skeetshooting."

"I'll bet," Jane murmured, as a copy of 'Ninja Scroll' clattered upon the children's shelf.

"Ms. Lane." Demartino turned to his co-worker. "I have noticed that the multiple openings I've provided you to fire off your _own_ appealingly quirky wisecracks have gone completely unheeded. I must surmise that something is bugging you enough to stifle your usual sass."

Jane's eyes were cast upon the dark grey carpet. "Mm. I guess I'm just a bit flat today."

Demartino shrugged. "Fine. It's your right to keep it to yourself, if you wanna."

Jane paused, and a DVD of 'Eyes Wide Shut' in her hands hovered over the comedy section. Demartino was actually reaching out to her. Even though Jane's interest in listening to his own thoughts and motivations had only been due to curiosity, perhaps it had touched him in a way Jane hadn't intended. Dare she reveal an element of her internal world to a man once rumoured to bite the heads off doves?

What the hell, she'd already aired some of her grievances to the formidable Helen Morgendorffer.

"Do you remember my brother?"

Demartino's brow furrowed. "Blonde, cried a lot? Member of the theatre club?"

"No, that was Wind. My other brother with the dark hair, Trent."

A grimace found its way onto Demartino's face. "Ah. The slacker. The little rock star who was such a diva that he couldn't even stay awake in class."

Jane prickled a little at this, suddenly feeling a twinge of regret at saying anything.

"The most _frustrating_ thing about that boy was the great potential which he never used. I remember the few moments of lucidity he graced me with. They displayed a keen understanding of the psychology of the individual. Heh… the best term paper he ever handed in actually consisted of angsty song lyrics, bemoaning some girl called Monique. If we hadn't been covering the cultural impact of the Romantic era poets in 19th century Europe, I would have flunked him."

The slightly softer tone that had melded into Demartino's gruff voice struck Jane. Back at school, she had never heard him address the students like that. She had surmised long ago that the man was a good judge of character, but she had not thought he would be at all partial to appreciating the finer points of his less diligent pupils.

"He's a good man," Jane stated. Demartino nodded silently, and Jane proceeded to tell all.

"…And so, for one reason or another, be it foolish pride or shame at his past laziness, he seems determined to stay in a job were he's summarily tortured every day. And I feel like I can't do anything for him."

The corner of Demartino's lip curled, and twisted his face into a small, crooked smile. "A 'regular Orpheus', huh?"

Jane shrugged. "That's how Daria characterised the situation."

The man sighed heavily. "For your brother's sake, Ms. Lane, I hope she lets him down easy. She's always seemed much more an Artemis than a Eurydice."

"Um. What?" Jane screwed up her features, wondering how much more tortured and nonsensical this Greek myth metaphor could get.

"I would have thought you of all people would _not_ be perplexed by this Sphinx-like talk. You _do_ know why Mr. Lane is sticking with that hellish day job, don't you?"

Kicking aside the last empty cardboard box and hopping up onto the counter, Jane fixed Demartino with a searching expression.

"Well, I'd certainly love to hear your theory."


	4. Chapter 4

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**Chapter IV**

_Stumbling to the door of his bedroom, over musty piles of clothing, scattered CD cases and take-out containers, Trent recognised the impulse of hunger rumbling in the pit of his stomach._

_It was probably getting onto about two o'clock. Mystik Spiral had played a killer gig at the Zōn last night, to the biggest crowd they'd seen for months. Jane and Daria had accompanied them to the ritual after-gig meal at Cluster Burger. The high spirits of the band were only buoyed by the presence of the girls, who had graduated high school the previous week and were still euphoric from their new-found breath of freedom. Even Daria, who had just experienced an acute severing from her ex-boyfriend Tom, was in a good enough mood to joke about the poor quality of the food and join in a rousing chorus of 'Hey Mister Normal'._

_It was strange to consider, but his baby sister and her quick-witted best friend were now officially adults. There had always been a modicum of protectiveness in his attitude towards the two of them that Trent just couldn't help. He wholly accepted that both young women were more intelligent than him, but he detected a certain something in the two of them that was kind of… delicate. Sensitive. While there was a general show of nonchalant ass-kicker savvy from the both of them, in truth they were more profoundly affected by the world around them than most other callous dolts. Especially Daria. She had a harder time affecting indifference and fitting in than Jane. Trent had never voiced it, but he felt a certain solidarity with the girl in her identity as a writer. Regardless of what she thought of the Spiral's music, both of them were still unified as artisans of the written word, trying to make sense of the world around them by pouring their souls into song lyrics and prose respectively._

_And then there had been the crush._

_Trent felt a coziness in his chest as he remembered the days of being Daria's heart throb, as he creaked down to scavenge the fridge. It had not taken him long to cotton onto the infatuation. Not only was it flattering to be admired by a girl who was so accomplished and insightful, but witnessing such a tender and vulnerable dimension of Daria's humanity had been deeply endearing. The girl clearly had no clue how sweet she actually was. He'd known it wasn't exactly dignified, but Trent could not resist flirting with her to coax out this side of her further._

_But, of course, she had grown up since then, and the scales had fallen from her eyes. She now simply saw him as a slack bastard, but nonetheless a likeable slack bastard. It had also been a pleasure to see her become less self conscious around him, less afraid to speak her mind. She truly was bright, far too bright to stay in Lawndale. Once she'd wowed the folks at that fancy college she would be going to, she'd be off to conquer the world. While Janey would no doubt tread a parallel path and remain firm friends with her, Trent would probably become a half-remembered footnote of her humble origins._

_Damn, he was depressing himself again. As he slouched over his now soggy bowl of stale froot loops, he wondered if he could channel this charge of emotion into a new song._

_The thought passed, as Trent poured another bowl of the cereal and dawdled into the living room. Dad had gotten the family TV repaired on his last stay at home, before popping off to the Democratic Republic of the Congo to photograph Northern White Rhinos. Perhaps there'd be a re-run of 'The Young Ones' on or something._

_As he flopped down, he noticed that he was sitting on something. Replacing the froot loops on the cluttered coffee table, he produced a leatherbound book from underneath his bony behind._

_Its cover a deep red, accented by a jetty satin place marker, it looked worn with use. It emanated a faint fragrance of aged paper mingled with a certain fresh, honeyed perfume, delicate and evocative. Trent meditatively stroked the smooth finish of the cover, reading the title: 'Keats: The Collected Works'._

_Daria. She was the only person who frequented this dump that was known to read poetry recreationally._

_His curiosity spurred further, Trent carefully opened the book to the page which the soft satin ribbon had marked. The title at the top, set in an uncomplicated font, read 'Endymion: Book III'._

_Trent read the first few lines, his still sleep-addled brain unable to make sense of the half-archaic verse. After dragging his eyes over the words, he wondered if reading out loud wouldn't make more sense of the poem._

"Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode

Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine

Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine

For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale

For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail

His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh?…"

_His eyes flickered upwards, only to find Daria herself standing in the doorway of the lounge room. Her small hand resting on the doorframe, her eyes wide and her breath faintly audible, Trent beheld in her tremulous grace._

"_I… I didn't think you were one for the Romantics," she remarked, grappling weakly for one of her typical snarky witticisms._

_Trent gave her a small smile, choosing to continue._

"Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye,

Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo!

How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe!

She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness

Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress

Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,

Dancing upon the waves, as if to please

The curly foam with amorous influence."

_She had perched herself lightly on the other end of the couch, hands clasped, her gaze furtively lighting upon him at intervals._

"_You read very well," she said, trying to make it sound like an appraisal._

"_That's funny, 'cuz I have no idea what it's supposed to be about," Trent grinned sheepishly._

"_I could be wrong, but judging from the title, I would say it's possibly about Endymion." The quip indicated the recollection of her composure._

"_And who's Endymion?" Trent asked playfully, surprised that he was genuinely eager to know._

"_He's a figure from Greek myth," she informed him, "a shepherd who seemed to have an affinity for excessive sleep."_

"_A man after my own heart," Trent chuckled. "Who's the Cynthia chick he's going on about?"_

"_The Greek moon goddess," Daria answered warily. "She saw him sleeping on a hilltop one night and fell in love with him."_

_Trent flicked a few pages restively. "And do they get together in the end?"_

_Daria took a moment to respond. "Greek stories usually saw fit to have lovers ripped to shreds by angry nymphs or wild boars. In the Keats version, they live happily ever after. I suppose he wanted to pander to popular tastes. Ironic, considering that the poem itself was ultimately ripped to shreds by the critics of the time."_

"_Shame," Trent said quietly. He slowly closed the book, and gently placed it in Daria's hands._

"_Hey! Morgendorffer!" Came Jane's holler from the front door. "If you don't get your ass in gear, we'll miss the movie!"_

"_See ya, Trent," she said, clutching the book to her breast as she flew off once more._

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

_ "Here," Jane said, leaning over the backseat and passing a new disc to Brittany. "Play this one."_

_ The blonde girl slid the CD into the stereo, and after a few seconds, the vigorous, chunky cacophony of a punkabilly girl band thumped its way throughout the interior of the vehicle, making all but Jane jump._

"_It ain't exactly Briteny Spears, eh?" Jane declared during the driving four-beat instrumental bridge._

_ "Actually," Jodie said slowly, "I don't hate it. It's pretty catchy."_

_ "It's awesome!" Came Brittany's much more enthused opinion._

_Daria leaned her arm on the windowsill of the little jeep and smiled to herself._

_It had been strange to see how this Summer had unfolded. It had been a given that she and Jane would spend much of it together. But because the common meeting place for Lawndale's graduating class of '01 was still Pizza King, they had found themselves gravitating to some of their classmates to swap reminiscences of high school, long hours of unexploited free time and nervous anticipation of college. Jodie and Mack, as always, had made highly agreeable company. Even the reserved and silent Andrea had deigned to share a slice or two with the girls. And most surprisingly, they had seen a whole new side to Brittany._

_She had dropped Kevin like a stone once she discovered he'd flunked senior year. In retaliation, he had hooked up with the first cheerleader from junior year he could find. Even if he _was_ to be the oldest kid in the senior class of '02, he would still be a QB with a hot cheerleader girlfriend. Nothing could take that away. _

_This liberation from the role Brittany had played for so long seemed to act upon her. Unlike Kevin, she was not eager to simply jump into a new romance, and instead spent more time with Jodie, Jane and Daria. Daria herself had guessed that the cheerful girl would have latched onto Angie and the other cheer squad comrades. However, seeing as they were all headed to the same college in September, it was probably a wise move not to tire of each other over the break. The realisation that the four more diverse girls would be effectively parting ways in a few months somehow made them all closer. Jodie, Jane and Daria had managed to drag Brittany along to museum exhibitions and art galleries, while Daria had submitted to a grisly series of make-overs at the hands of the other girls. They had all attended Andrew Landon's gargantuan 4__th__ July barbecue, and while the majority of the guests had mingled out the back and splashed in the pool, the four girls had dangled their legs over the front porch leisurely discussing music, parents, politics and serial killers. Brittany in particular managed to draw some surprisingly clever comparisons between the topics._

_It was now August, and the quartet were leaving sweltering Lawndale behind to go to 'Squalor In The Grass', a one-day music festival held on a peninsula near The Cove. Steve Taylor owned one of the massive summer homes that commanded the sweeping ocean view, and as a going-away-to-college present, he had allowed his daughter to use it unsupervised for the weekend. They were all secretly glad not to have to sleep in a musty tent and be entirely dependent on port-a-potties, like many of the other concert-goers._

_The ostentatious African décor provided amusment that evening, before the girls retired for a mercifully early night, in order to rise and shine in time for the beginning of the festivities. Even at eight in the morning, the crowd was oppressive. Daria instinctively stuck close to Jane as they wended their way through the pulsing flood of people. Ever the ambitious tactician, Jodie had managed to run ahead and stake out a prime spot on a small hillock, graced with the spreading branches of an Asiatic pine._

_After a lingering hour or so, during which most of the snacks of the day were consumed, the sound of distorted guitars finally shrieked out of the massive speakers by the stage. The crowd didn't stir much in reaction. This would ony be the first opening act. A few people cheered weakly out of politeness, but the girls didn't take much heed. Brittany's head was still buried in her fashion magazine, Jodie continued conversing with a polite and pleasant mohawked girl in the group sitting next to them, and Daria and Jane kept snickering over the absurd doodles they were drawing in Jane's sketchbook._

"You're an angel in black

You sure have a knack

For puttin' my heart

On a shelf in the back

I'm waitin' my turn

Oh, when will I learn?

My poor heart

You're givin' it freezer burn

Yeah…"

_It was the famailiar descending, chromatic chords of the intro that signalled to Daria. She and Jane looked to the stage to espy none other than Mystik Spiral. The four boys wailed and powered their way through 'Icebox Woman', though there seemed to be a sharper and tighter feel to the ensemble. The chord progressions were not as sloppy, the rhythm Max kept was clean and dextrous. Trent's smoky voice was not only much more in tune, but it now exuded frustrated passion and nuanced feeling. Over months and months of deliberate and exacting practice, Mystik Spiral were starting to sound more and more like an accomplished professional band._

_Furthermore, Trent was beginning to eat up his role as the frontman. Instead of just standing there and chucking out riffs on his guitar, his long lean frame swayed and slinked with the beat— not frenetic and hyper like some rock stars, but keeping in character with his drowsy, dreary sensuality. His pensive delivery melded brilliantly with the heavy, raw instrumentals. He was finally settling into his own skin as a musician and expressing himself authentically._

_He had also obviously learned the hexing charm of flashing his large, intensely blue eyes at the girls in the audience. Daria instantly hated herself for allowing to feel a brief flicker of the old torch she had once carried. She spent the rest of the Spiral's performance in a sort of dual consciousness, dreamily drifting away on the music while also trying to beat her withered-yet-resiliant sentimentality into submission._

"_Typical," Jane rasped after cheering her lungs out at the Spiral's finale. "The most fabulous gig Trent has ever gotten, and the big lug forgot to tell us."_

_Both the other opening acts and the more famous featured bands all seemed to meld into one screamy, indecipherable block of noise. While they seemed to get the crowd much more worked up, Daria fancied that they were all sharing the same frenzied faux-punk persona, while vexing the same three repetetive chords and the same cliches about rebellion. _

_At some point during the afternoon, the Spiral located the girls amongst the crowd and joined them in their nest of food wrappers, discarded programmes and scattered backpacks._

"_YOU!" Jane cried, swatting her brother's crown and grinning despite herself. "I can't believe you're such a careless dope that you forgot to tell your baby sister about the biggest gig of your life!"_

_Trent laughed huskily. "I didn't forget. Surpri-ise."_

_She crushed him in a boa constrictor hug._

_The festival finally wound down, and in the jaundiced sunlight of the summer evening, the day trippers started to pour their way out of the now desecrated venue. Within walking distance was a small seaside commerical strip, and the various fast food establishments worked at full capacity to feed the hungry young punters._

_The quartet of women was now a unisex octet. As the group took their hefty load of fish and chips down to the picturesque beachside park, Daria observed the various lively streams of chatter that were being bandied about by her companions. She couldn't help but notice Max's continued advances on a disinclined Brittany. Trent made repeated attempts to distract his indelicate bandmate, talking up their performance that day and complimenting his technique on the drums. At least on Brittany's behalf, Daria was privately thankful._

_After the meal, flavoured by the humid and salty wind, the Spiral collected themselves, ready to head back to Lawndale that night. With a full tank of gas and a hit of energy from the convivial seafood banquet, they piled into the Tank as the girls saw them off._

_But as Max turned the key in the ignition, tragedy struck. The engine gave one plaintive little hiss before falling completely dormant._

"_Damnit! Damnit, damnit, damnit!" Max whined, sounding eerily similar to one Jake Morgendorffer._

"_Hey Brittany, you got jumper cables in your car?" Trent asked._

_They tried various techniques to revive the old van, finally calling in an emergency mechanic, who ultimately ended up costing the boys half of their gig money. As the light faded, the affable mustachioed tradie made the fateful announcement._

"_I'm sorry kids," he consoled, "I've looked at every single element of the engine… this van has had it. Looks like you're taking the train home."_

_Max burst into tears, as Jesse thought to extract an acoustic from the back of the dearly departed vehicle and play Taps._

"_Tank, we hardly knew ye," Jane sermonised._

"_Aw man," Trent groaned. "Looks like we're gonna have another night trying to curl up around the drum kit."_

_His sister gaped. "You guys slept in _there_ last night!" She indicated the interior of the Tank, already crammed with instruments and amplifiers. "That's desperate even for you!"_

_Reason prevailed, and after a few short trips in Brittany's jeep, both Mystik Spiral and their instruments were safely installed in the Taylors' summer home. The woebegone corpse of the Tank was left to the mercy of the local impound tow truck._

_To wile away the evening, everyone scattered themselves across the colossal house, winding down the eventful day in whichever way they saw fit._

_Trent's acoustic guitar playing eventually attracted Brittany's attention. Daria, curled up on the leather couch with a copy of Lord Byron's 'Don Juan', pretended to ignore the two as he played old eighties covers at the behest of the blonde girl._

"A lovestruck Romeo sings the streets a serenade

Playing everybody low with a lovesong that he made

He finds a convenient streetlight, steps out of the shade

Says somethin' like 'You and me babe, how about it?'"

"_Oh," Brittany sighed, "what a beautiful song. 'Romeo and Juliet' must be the greatest love story ever."_

_Daria could no longer resist. "Julia Roberts and Richard Gere may beg to differ." She did not raise her eyes from the page._

"_Hmmm…" Brittany twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger, looking at Daria thoughtfully. "Daria, which is the oldest love story in history?"_

_Daria put her book down and sighed, feigning annoyance at the interruption. "As far as I know, the concept of romance was a construct of the medieval European court. Just as knights were associated with the code of chivalry, troubadors…" Off Brittany's inquisitive frown, "that is, guys who wrote musical poetry and went around performing it on their lutes… were associated with courtly love. They'd develop fixations on various aristocratic ladies, and follow them around playing odes to them."_

"_Wow!" Brittany squeaked._

"_And thanks to this handful of creepy saps from the Middle Ages, almost every woman in the world today feels obliged to fulfill a desperate, all-encompassing requirement to shackle herself to the first guy she likes the look of, and live happily ever after," she concluded. "No matter how ill-advised or destructive that may end up being. Just look at Romeo and Juliet for a good example."_

"_Aw c'mon Daria, not everyone's like that," Trent countered placidly. "If true love wasn't a real part of our make-up, practically no-one would get worked up about finding it."_

_Daria crossed her arms, her gaze darting out the plate-glass window towards the calm, dark ocean. "I suppose… But you can't help but be disgusted by the reckless gush of silly lovesongs and cliched Hollywood formulas we're bombarded with. They make it harder to detect genuine emotions in amongst the collective desperation of not wanting to die alone. As if marriage could somehow prevent that inevitability. Again, I implore you to take Romeo and Juliet as case in point."_

_Trent smiled warmly, fiddling out the tune of the melancholy rock ballad on his guitar once more._

"_You know Daria, out of everyone I know, I think you're the one most likely to find true love."_

_Daria scoffed. "Really."_

"_Really," the young man insisted softly. "You're perceptive and smart. And what you stand for is pure honesty. If anyone can detect a diamond amongst piles of cut glass, it's you."_

_The girl curled in on herself further, mumbling a subdued thanks._

_The clock creeped into the antemeridian, and the household finally conceded it was bedtime._

_Daria had retreated upstairs after her conversation with Brittany and Trent, to follow the adventures of Don Juan in solitude. Trent had continued on playing classic covers with his tranquil aplomb, eventually attracting some of the others for a singalong. He wondered if they were loud enough for Daria to hear._

_He found a bedroom of his own in the labyrinthine upper corridor, sneering at the ridiculous plush surroundings. With the bright blue filigree and gold-leafed chairs, it looked like a parody of Victoriana. It must have been Brittany's stepmother who had decorated this Barbara Cartland novel of a room. Perhaps Daria _did_ have a point about the sappy fairy-tale side to pop culture._

_The air was stale from the space having been disused for a number of weeks. Trent drew back the velvet drapes and opened the sliding door to let in the cool night air. The distant rumble of the waves met his ears and he inhaled luxuriously._

_This side of the house was girt by a long common balcony, to take full advantage of the magnificent view. Trent stepped out upon its wooden flooring in his bare feet, eager to soak in the full splendour of the panorama._

_There, gilt by the delicate light of the pearlescent moon, was Daria._

_She had changed into a voluminous white night shirt which gathered loosely at her ankles and fluttered slightly in the breeze. Her eyes were still affixed to that Don Juan book. Not wishing to disturb her, Trent kept his distance and leant on the railing, watching her while pretending to be staring at the headland behind her._

_A moment from a month or so previous came back to him, and he recalled the verse he had gleaned from the Keats poem:_

"Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye,

Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo!

How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe!

She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness

Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress

Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,

Dancing upon the waves, as if to please

The curly foam with amorous influence."

_Her whole body seized at the sound of his voice, and she could feel her cheeks scorch against the temperate air. By the time he had finished, she had begun to shudder slightly from the thrilling, dread chill bursting in her chest._

"_I… I can't believe you remembered all that…" She whispered._

"_Neither can I," Trent half-joked._

_He took one tentative step forward, and Daria's delicate foot coiled back under her chair._

"_Daria…" He knelt before her, his blue eyes wide and clear. "I wouldn't ask you at all if I didn't think I had even a ghost of a chance…"_

_For once, she was struck dumb. Slowly, carefully, his large warm hands removed the book of poetry from her white fingers, and he clutched them tenderly._

_A lengthy moment passed. Daria was still, and did not push him away. Their eyes had locked, and Trent leaned in to kiss her._

"_No," She protested, finally cleaving herself from him. "No."_

_She padded away to her bedroom door, still trembling violently._

"_Daria…" Trent rose but did not follow._

_Her breath began to quicken, and it took immense restraint for him not to reach out again and try to console her._

"_You…" her voice was shaking. "I've already won that battle. I got over you years ago. You and I… we're just too different. You don't honestly think…"_

_Now Trent felt something prickly rise up from his gut. "What? That we'd work out? That this natural sympathy that I feel every time I look at you couldn't bridge any of our differences?"_

_She sniffled, determined not to look back at him. "I only just got over my first REAL boyfriend! Don't you dare do this to me! I just don't have it in me to get hurt again! Just… just to indulge your ego and your stupid ideals!"_

_Trent's heart staggered with a surge of sorrow. "Daria, it's not about that…"_

"_Good night, Trent." She slammed the sliding door, leaving the young man to stand alone in the moonlight._

_She was astonished to find Brittany sitting upon her bed, a look of seldom-seen outrage in her eyes._

_She stood, closed the door to the hallway, and offered Daria a kleenex._

"_You idiot," she admonished._

"_What?" Daria shoved the tissue between her thick glasses and her eyes to remove the evidence of her few tears._

_Brittany looked Daria square in the face. "All today, you've teased him, argued with him, challenged him. And I'm sure that's what you've done the whole time you've known him. And not only has he taken it all patiently, he's admired you for it."_

_Daria tried to turn away, but Brittany grabbed her by the arms._

"_What you just tossed away was a man who wants you exactly as you are. Your bitchy comments and, and… braininess don't phase him, because he truly sees you! He sees the beauty in you that doesn't need make-up or cute outfits or a flirty happy exterior! Do you have any idea how many people would KILL for that!"_

_Daria remained silent._

"_The only guys I ever seem to attract are jerks who only see me for my boobs and my outgoing attitude. I may not be a genius, Daria, but all the time I was with Kevin, I knew exactly what he saw in me, not to mention what he expected of me. To be his plaything and his fashion ornament, rather than an equal or a friend. I have no doubt Trent would follow you ANYWHERE, if you'd let him. You wouldn't have to play up to any image or be anything other than yourself. Just like you've always done."_

_She let go of the brunette's arms, and strode towards the hallway door._

"_Maybe one day, you'll become brave enough to care for someone as wholly as Trent cares for you," was her parting shot._

_Daria drew the curtains, clambered underneath the blankets and desperately urged the approach of sleep._


	5. Chapter 5

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**Chapter V**

Could it be possible? And, if so, how could she have missed it?

Perhaps Demartino's position as an outsider had allowed him to observe facts that Jane had missed. Perhaps in settling for the simplest explanation, he had propelled her to re-examine her brother and instictively pick up on his stifled longings. Either way, it was an argument that Jane had never considered, but once lain before her, it made startlingly perfect sense.

The way Demartino had explained it had been tinged with characteristic bitterness. Not being party to the agonised evolution of Daria's romantic sensibilities— scant as they were— he had automatically assumed that she would rather bob for apples in hydrochloric acid than ever consider accepting the advances of any suitor. As Jane walked back to the Morgendorffers' that evening, counting the cracks in the pavement, she blithely pondered when and by whom Demartino may have had his own youthful romantic sensibilities defiled.

The next day was a day off for both Lane siblings. Jane arose with intent, busying herself in the Morgendorffer kitchen. Daria wandered in some time later, mystified by the aromas and the heat and the general hive of Janian activity.

"You're cooking pancakes?"

"Not for you, missy. I have a favour to ask from Trent, and I need some primo bribe material."

While Jane's eyes were glued to the frying pan she was currently slinging batter into, she could feel her friend's righteous indignation oozing through the warm air.

"A favour? Don't you think the poor guy's under enough stress already!"

Passionatley rushing to his defence, eh? And it wasn't even ten a. m.? Oh, my. Jane cackled internally. "Ah, young lady. This shall be a favour designed to wholly benefit our favorite wandering minstrel."

"I don't like it when you start speaking like a cartoon supervillain. You're up to something, Lane."

Her eyes finally met Daria's, and the black-haired girl grinned widely.

Daria shook her head and turned to leave. "Whatever. I'm going back to bed."

"Rise. Rise, my beauty," Jane cooed to a sweetly bubbling pancake.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Oh yes. These pancakes tasted of extortion. And buttermilk. And real maple syrup.

Whatever drudgery Janey needed him to carry out, whoever she needed him to tackle, wherever she needed him to drive her… at the moment it was totally worth it.

"Nice, huh?" Jane grinned toothily. "I got up at eight-thirty today to make these. Ya gotta let the batter rest, don't you know."

"Mnf," Trent concurred between forkfuls.

"I figured my brother could use some comfort food after slaving away at that taxing job of his."

"Mhmmf!" Jesse insisted.

"Oh, and Jesse too, of course," the younger Lane placated.

Hm. Should she wait until her brother was taking a sip of his freshly brewed cappucino?

She decided against it when she remembered that the shirt she was currently wearing was one of her favourites.

"So… I think I've figured out a way for you to hook up with Daria."

Instead, Trent nearly choked on an ambitiously large mouthful of pancake.

As the coughing fit ensued, Jane's eye widened to the size of Christmans baubles.

"_Woah_…" she marvelled, "So it _is_ true!"

Even Jesse felt the need to voice his surprise. "No way," he muttered between mouthfuls.

"How could I… how could _you_ have kept it so well hidden?" Jane demanded to know.

Off Trent's indignant look, she withered a little. "Um… sorry. I'm just… usually… I'd like to think I'm good at reading my brother. You know, the whole grew up together thing. So…"

She collected herself, and asked in a gentler tone: "How did this come about?"

Trent gripped his coffee cup, half wishing to lose himself in its brownish, lukewarm depths.

"Remember when she first started going out with Tom? I got kinda mad with her. And for a while I thought it was only because of you."

Jane remained patiently quiet, allowing her brother to find his words.

"But eventually I realised that I was upset for my own sake, too. I know it sounds a bit stupid, but I'd gotten used to being the guy she had, you know, a thing for?"

Jesse looked up from his plate. "Daria had a thing for you?"

Trent nodded glumly. Jane couldn't stop the sympathetic smile from spreading on her lips.

"It felt nice to be cared for, huh?"

"And then," Trent continued, "along comes this totally decent guy, better than me in basically every way."

"Aside from the fact that _you_ wouldn't cheat on your girlfriend," Jane interruped pointedly.

"Right. But once you'd made up with Daria, I basically had no legitimate excuse to hate him.  
>I managed to convince myself that I only felt jealous 'cause I'd liked the feeling of being admired."<p>

Here he fell into silence again.

"But?..." Jane urged.

"But then… after a while I started to really see her. She wasn't just my kid sister's little friend anymore. She's a young woman, strong and smart and not like anyone else… she has soul. Real soul." Trent huffed into the remaining puddles of syrup dejectedly. "But by then, she'd realised that I'm a loser."

"Now that's no way to talk!" The girl exclaimed. "You've done what you set out to do, and proven your resolve by not backing down from Bryant the Tyrant."

Trent narrowed his eyes. "Humph. Mack told me about you girls' little chat with him." He shook his head. "I dunno. I'm starting to see what a dumb idea it was. Now she not only sees me as a loser, but a minimum wage loser to boot."

Jane threw out her hands. "You know Daria doesn't care about crap like that! What you need to do now is make some grand, wildly romantic declaration to her. Engage her interests… recite some of her favourite poetry or something!"

Trent felt a pang in his chest at that. It seemed Janey had never learned of the devestating night at The Cove.

She must have read the hurt in his expression. "You… oh. It, uh, didn't go so well, then?"

Trent morosely trailed little patterns in his maple syrup with his index finger. "Heels over ass." He sucked the liquid off his fingertip sloppily. "Face it, Janey. She's just too good for me."

The sound of Jane's open hands hitting the tabletop made her brother start. She leaned over him menacingly.

"Trent Lane. Now see here. You are not only substantially good, you're one of the best men I know. I _promised_ myself that I'd get you to rally the courage for this. You deserve a little happiness in your life."

They stared at each other for a protracted few seconds, until once again, Trent slackened in his chair like a marionette with its strings cut.

"It's hopeless," he insisted.

Jane threw her hands up with an aggravated cry. "Jesus, brother, I could just… strangle you! Of all the things you've given up on, you can't even summon any freakin' chutzpah for _this!_"

Her tirade stopped short when she whirled around to behold the huge and terrified eyes of Beatrice Moreno, Jesse's nine year old sister.

"Oh, sorry, Bea. I was only yelling at Trent."

Bea giggled up at Jane nervously. In her podgy little hands was one of Jesse's older and more battered guitars, which looked as if the strings had been newly replaced. She instinctively clutched the weathered instrument closer to herself.

"What's up Bea?" Trent said amiably, glad for the interruption.

"Um, um, Trent, I wanna show you something!"  
>She hopped up onto one of the dining chairs, squirming to settle the slightly-too-large instrument upon her knee. Her short arms extended to achieve purchase of the neck and the belly, and once she attained a stable enough position, she smiled shyly up at her older companions.<p>

"Go on," Jesse urged her.

"_Well since my baby left me!_" Dah-dah.

"_I found a new place to dwell!_" Dah-dah.

"_It's down the end of Lonely Street!"_ Doom-pah, doom-pah…

"_It's Heartbreak Hotel!_" Doom-pah, doom-pah, doomp.

The high-pitched, slightly off key vocals were accompanied by a series of clear and self-assured power chords. A round of applause followed from the audience.

"Awesome, Bea. You're a rock star," Trent commended.

"I practiced alllll last night," she stated proudly. "Will you teach me the rest today?"

"Sure. It's really just the same couple of chords over again with different words, though, so you kinda already know it."

"Awww," she whined, "but I want you to teach me it…" The pout on her face was firmly tounge-in-cheek.

"Why don't we practice it together, then?" Trent suggested. "It'll be like a jam session."

"Yay!" She hopped down from the chair, and tugged at her mentor's hand, urging him to follow her into the Moreno sitting room. "Rachel Landon is soooo jealous that I'm learning guitar," the pixie chattered, "I played the opening to 'Come As You Are' for her the other day!"

Jane began clearing the dishes, and Jesse picked at a hole in his shoe. As an uneven duet of 'Heartbreak Hotel' exploded from the direction of the sitting room, Jane couldn't help but tap her foot along to the jagged rhythm.

"Trent's been teaching Bea?" she quizzed Jesse. "As her brother, I thought that would've been your duty."

Jesse shrugged. "Trent seems to have more patience for little kids. And now all of Bea's little friends want lessons from him, too."

"And is he getting recompensation for this tutelage?"

Jesse gave Jane a blank stare.

The young woman sighed. "Is he getting _paid_ for it?"

"Mom's been making his favourite meals as a thank you."

"Wow," Jane marvelled indolently, scrubbing the licked-clean plates with a soggy sponge. "The way to that boy's heart is totally through his stomach."

Jesse smiled. "Beats being a starving artist though, huh?"

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

"Hm. Those are horrifyingly disgusting, Ms. Lane," Demartino said conversationally.

"Thanks!" Jane kept her eyes set on the ink sketch of the monster she was bringing to life. "H. R. Giger's stuff has always been geared towards inspiring the less fluffy end of the emotional spectrum. Mind you, his aliens are apparently My Little Ponies when compared with H. P. Lovecraft's Old Ones."

"Sounds as if you've been listening to that Artie kid too much."

"Well… if I start to draw cartoons of Mulder and Scully, just knock some sense into me, will ya?"

On the monitor in the corner of the video shop, Sigourney Weaver mutely blasted away a band of slimy, extraterrestrial monsters.

"May I see the other pictures in your book?" Demartino implored.

Jane handed it to him, watching his fierce, unreadable eyes scan the drawings as he flicked through the pages.

"Fairy tales?" Demartino grunted.

She explained. "At college this year, I went through a major Edmund Dulac phase. And if you'd met some of the self-important hacks who call themselves my lecturers, you'd want to escape into some grim fairy tales, too."

"This Little Red Riding Hood seems quite telling," Demartino mused, meditating on one of the pages heavy with spidery black lines. "Is that grotesque wolf wearing a beret?"

He looked up at Jane, who smirked and shrugged.

"Ms. Lane, you have a vivid imagination," he pronounced, handing the book back to her. "If a rather twisted one," he added.

The girl couldn't help but feel a little deflated. "I suppose my stuff is an acquired taste," was her meagre refutation.

"I didn't say they weren't to my taste. I just thought you're probably tired of people telling you they're marvellous."

"Oh! Um… thanks, Mister D." Jane surmised that the remark must have been a compliment, but she wasn't completely sure.

Demartino eyed the closed book again. "Though… I find it curious that all the art I've seen of yours is so surreal. Have you never dabbled in drawing from life?"

Jane gently bounced the tome full of her work in her hand, feeling its weight. "Only for practicing technique. Daria was always the realist making insights about the world around her. I guess I supplement that by being inspired by dreamscapes."

Demartino bowed his head slightly, his morose black eyes now glinting at Jane from a peculiar angle. "Quite understandable. But the old masters painted from life. The most dynamic, startling art is captured thus. I only hope your considerable talent is one day inspired by things of flesh and carbon, rather than the phantasms of the ether."

For an enduring instant, the young woman was as petrified as a Barberini faun.

"OmiGOSH! Hi Jane!"

Off Demartino's suddenly horrified look, Jane turned to find none other than Brittany Taylor standing before the counter, a stack of videos in her hands. Her face brightened further when she recognised Demartino.

"Mr D too! Wow, who else ya got back there?"

"Hey Brittany," Jane responded, certainly not unhappy to see the bubbly girl. She made note of the movies being rented as she scanned them… Fellini's '8 ½', Michael Powell's 'The Red Shoes', Derek Jarman's 'Caravaggio'… University had certainly done a number on Brittany's old bimbo persona.

"I heard about your defection from teaching from Ms. Morris," Brittany chattered to Demartino, who was currently trying to hide behind a counter card. "I'm sure you're just as relieved to be outta that place as _we_ are!"

"Um… yeah." The man look more astonished at her informed use of a three-syllable word than her sympathetic sentiments.

Jane raised an eyebrow at the final video she scanned. "'Beauty and the Beast', Britt?"

The blonde girl smiled. "Sentimental childhood favourite. I couldn't help myself."

"Fair enough. Disregarding all the fluffiness, Glen Keane's genius in animating the Beast is incredible. The guy spent months with his sketchpad studying zoo animals to come up with it. The perfect artistic fusion of drawing from both life and fantasy."

From the corner of her vision, Jane caught Demartino's incredulous simper.

"Cool!" Brittany squeaked. "Well, I'd best be off. I'm sure Mr. Landon will be dragging half of Lawndale to his ritual 4th July party. Don't be a stranger, huh?" And with a flick of her ponytail, she skipped off.

"Who was that creature and what has she done with Brittany?" Demartino grilled.

"You missed quite a magical transformation last Summer," Jane told him. "The moment she dumped Kevin, she began to grow a brain."

"Hmph. I can't help but think that her new found intellectualism is just another way of fitting in," the man grumbled.

"Maybe," Jane mused, "but at least she's learning a thing or two while she's at it."

Demartino shook his head. "I _really_ hope that poor silly girl doesn't fall into the wrong crowd. Intellectual or not, she still strikes me as the most naïve little sap that ever was."

"Why, Mister Demartino." Jane mockingly slapped a hand to her cheek. "Could it be that you actually care for your former students?"

He made a face. "Only in the capacity of not wanting them to be a public safety hazard," he drawled.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

_The solar disc was no longer a well-defined sphere, but a wide expanding eclipse that fanned out across the eastern horizon like a colossal fire-ball, its reflection turning the dead-leaden surface of the lagoon into a brilliant copper shield. By noon, less than four hours away, the water would seem to burn…_

Daria dropped her book, her head languidly following the trail of the overworked pedestal fan in its metrical sway. Her padded room, usually a reliable refuge, was roasting in the heat. Earlier that morning she had scarpered from the air-conditioned first floor of the house, when a few of Quinn's trendy cronies had dropped by, and the TV was turned over to 'Fashion Vision' with the volume on full-blast.

Perhaps J. G. Ballard's 'The Drowned World', a prophetic sci-fi novel about the cataclysmic aftereffects of global warming, was a poor choice of reading material for early July.

She replaced the newly purchased book on her shelf, searching instead for something Gothic and European. Preferably involving characters on the brink of hypothermia.

"Daria?" Came Helen's voice through the closed door.

"Enter," Daria directed, bracing herself.

"Sweetie, lunch is ready. Your father's made… good heavens, it's boiling in here!"

"I prefer to think of it as cozily insulated," Daria monotoned, dragging her thick chestnut mane into a ponytail and wiping a stream of sweat from the back of her neck.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Daria. Just because we have visitors, there's no need for you to hide away and torture yourself in this sauna." Helen crossed the room and started opening Daria's windows in the hopes of encouraging a breeze.

"The TV down there is too loud for me to concentrate on my book," Daria replied testily.

Helen sighed. She didn't have the energy to drag this age old argument out any further. Not when there was _another_ age old argument that she needed to address. "Fine," she continued, "but it's not encuraging to see you hide away in this room day after day. Before you know it, it'll be September and you will have done nothing productive with your time off. Jane's got a job, so maybe you can find one too."

"So you want me to exchange a sauna for a sweathouse, then," her daughter riposted.

"Well, if you're adamantly against gainful employment, then why not find some other way to engage yourself? A new hobby, or voulenteer work? Maybe a short course in something? I know they offer creative writing classes at the state library in the city…"

Daria squeezed her eyes shut, and exhaled dolefully. "I'll think about it," she muttered.

"C'mon ladies," came Jake's holler from downstairs, "the gazpacho soup will get warm!"

As Daria headed down the hallway, she realised that the blaring commentary on platform stilettos and hipster jeans had reached a merciful close. It had been replaced by the soft, measured strumming of an acoustic guitar, and much to Daria's annoyance, her heart went and skipped a beat to spite her.

"Oooh, that was awesome!" Came the enthused squeal of Quinn.

Daria quickened her pace and leapt down the last few stairs. She discovered that the musician was in fact Stacy. A sleek, brand new instrument, its curvaceous frame predictably tinted pastel pink, lay across the girl's lap.

"Where are the other two drones?" Daria asked.

"If you're referring to Sandi and Tiffany," Quinn responded with unambiguous spite, "they flounced off in a huff when they found out Dad would be serving white bread with the soup and full-fat frozen yoghurt for dessert."

"They didn't even stay to hear me play 'Ziggy Stardust'," Stacy lamented.

"You play guitar?" Daria asked guardedly.

Stacy giggled. "I've only just started learning," she replied, "but my teacher's really really good. He was recommended by Sandi's parents, cuz he's also teaching her brother Chris. Sometimes we have group lessons on Sunday afternoons. It's so fun, he lets us play cool songs together, instead of just nursery rhymes and stuff like normal teachers. And he's soooo dreamy!"

"Ew! Stacy, he has gross tattoos all over his arms. And his hair! It's so… _unkempt._"

"Oh, I _know…_" A guttural strain of lust undercut Stacy's usually babyish tone.

Daria hoped to god that the heat in her face would go away. "This teacher," she said, despising the hell out of her current bout of interest. "He wouldn't happened to be called Trent Lane?"

"Yes!" Stacy squealed.

Quinn smiled. "He's a friend of Daria's."

"You're _friends_ with him?" Stacy exclaimed approvingly. "Wow, you're cooler than I thought!"

The conversation was abruptly derailed by Jake, impatiently ushering everyone into the kitchen for lunch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**Chapter VI**

The echoed cracking and shrieking of roman candles and bottle rockets perforated the muggy air. Great billows of smoke hung in the lengthening shadows of the coming evening.

Inside her room, Daria quietly and deliberately opened the bottom drawer to her dresser, and extracted a black nylon bag.

She scuttled into the bathroom, locking the door tight. She caught her reflection over the sink, at first alarmed and then dissatisfied at the pale, dour organism looking back at her.

The bathroom was something of a soundproof shell, the fireworks outside were now at best faint rumbles. She dove into the black bag and took out its few paltry contents.

In the ten minutes she spent before the mirror, she managed to tweeze the edge of her eyebrows, comb the tangles out of her hair, slather on a few smears of pimple cream, delicately glaze her lashes with a generic mascara and apply a demure shade of lip gloss.

It seemed that this effort had made absolutely no difference. The more overt part of her psyche was relieved by this. Yet beneath her impassive expression, some other derelict spirit railed and howled in frustration and longing, as dulled and deep as the resounding thunder of the fireworks outside.

A coarse thumping rattled the door. "Daria! Come ON!"

She opened it to behold Quinn, dressed to the nines in an elaborate and form-fitting ensemble.

"I believe in being fashionably late, but I don't wanna leave Stacy to put up with Sandi and Tiffany for too long. Tonight's meant to be _fun._"

As she followed her younger sister down the stairs and out to the awaiting car, Daria stared blankly at the intricately painted toenails peeping out of Quinn's golden strappy heels. Red, white and blue. But of course.

The whole Morgendorffer family had been invited to Andrew Landon's 4th July barbecue. The event had gained momentum and notoriety over the few years since its inception, and now it had become the veritable Lawndalian social event of the season. Even big enough to allow inclusion of Helen and Jake, who had repeatedly attempted to ingratiate themselves to the Landons without luck.

As Daria sat in the backseat of the Lexus, squashed between Quinn and Jane, she felt more like a teenager than she had for a long time. College had given her such a notion of independence and cerebral cultivation, that it felt somewhat jarring to be reminded that she was still a dependent below the legal drinking age. Here and now, she was one of the kids in the backseat, looking forward to an evening of cherry soda and chit-chat with her old classmates, while the grownups discussed stock options and drank wine.

Or, more likely, she could look forward to cherry soda and sitting in a quiet corner with Jane, making wisecracks about her old classmates, being duly ignored by them.

The encroaching thumpa-thumpa of tired 80s floor-fillers as they drove the few blocks to the Landons' indicated that the party was already in full swing.

"Oh good," Daria grumbled as she got out of the car, "I just haven't heard enough from the B52s in my life."

Jane smirked askance. "Wait til ya see the live band Mister Landon's got for tonight. I hear they're awesome."

Daria's blank veneer didn't slip. She focused on a splatter of grey firework debris dispersed upon the the sidewalk. Inwardly, she reined her wild apprehensions into casual curiosity. Did this mean the Spiral were back to perform another gig? Or was Jane merely toying with her? The last Daria had heard, Trent had achieved the heretofore unthinkable task of balancing his job at the Payday with his newfound calling of teaching the neighborhood kids to play guitar.

"I'm so glad you came!" Jodie rested her hand upon Daria's shoulder. Out of respect she resisted the urge to shy away from the contact.

"It's good to see you, Jodie," Daria conceeded. "What Herculean tasks has your dad set for you this Summer?"

"Actually, I found my own summer job, working in Doonan at the mall."

"Doonan? That ritzy boutique?" The bespectacled girl made an effort not to sound disapproving.

"It's really great, actually," Jodie asserted. "The manager is a lovely woman, and the clothes are manufactured from eco-friendly materials. And they're so much classier than the tarty things they sell at Cashman's. I reckon even _you'd_ like them!"

"No thanks. It's strictly cowls and hair-shirts for me."

Jodie giggled. "Apart from that, I've just been voulenteering at my brother's playgroup. All those little kids are pretty tiring, but it's lots of fun. I've been reading out so much Dr. Seuss that I think it's actually improved my elecution. How about you?"

Daria passed her memory over the sluggish succession of vacant June days. Computer games and thick novels, mostly.

"Um, I've been thinking of writing a short story."

"That's cool! You know, you really should start getting your stuff published, for real. I'm sure some your professors at Raft would make good contacts to the industry."

Daria shrugged, half flattered and half ashamed. "Maybe."

The next moment, Jodie was absorbed back into the crowd by a clique of prim, poised cohorts from Turner University. She waved a brisk goodbye, and Daria elbowed her way through the mingling masses, looking for a vacant corner in which to sit and nurse her styrofoam cup of cherry soda.

Traversing the crowded sitting room, she found Jane, who was being accosted by Mr. O'Neill.

"…Uh, I don't think Mister Demartino will be able to make it tonight." Jane's eyes found Daria, and communicated desperation.

"What a shame," O'Neill replied dolefully, "I was so hoping to see him again. I wanted an update on his new free-wheeling, adventurous life!"

"I'm not sure if there's much adveture involved in scanning videos and staring at the walls all day," Jane told him. "He did kill a mouse that was scurrying around the back room yesterday, though."

O'Neill's hand went to his mouth. "Oh dear!"

"That's nothing," Daria declared. "I caught a mosquito out of the air with my fist the other night."

"No fair. It had probably become incapacitated by the fumes of your Dad's cooking," Jane rebutted.

O'Neill lit up as he recognised his favourite former student. "Daria! How lovely to see you! Has your budding young literary talent found fruitful guidance from the professors at Raft?"

"They've done nothing to compromise my maidenish honour, if that's what you're worried about," Daria gibed.

"Oh, no no no," O'Neill backtracked, "I just wonder whether some of them might not be valuable mentors and contacts for your debut in the professional literary world."

Daria shrugged and said "maybe" again, wanting more than ever to shrink away from the sweaty, pulsing mass of chatting and shimmying party goers.

"So… Mister Demartino said he'd been working down at the harbour in town," Jane piped up, making a gallant effort at rescuing her best friend from any further interrogation.

"Yes!" O'Neill's eyes sparkled with appreciation. "Anthony always wanted to join the Merchant Navy when he was a lad, but circumstances prevented him from following his dream. Now I think he's found a job that he really enjoys, loading and unloading cargo for shipping companies. He says it's good honest work beside the ocean. The video store position has been in aid of saving up to take that vocation overseas."

"Overseas?" Jane found herself a little dismayed.

"He told me he's thinking of working in Antwerp for a while," O'Neill continued, "And then maybe heading somewhere warm like Málaga. I think he has the soul of a Gypsy," the man marvelled, sounding unintentionally as if he were narrating a trailer for a Disney film.

"I feel that he does," Jane agreed reflexively.

The two girls eventually managed to wrest themselves away from O'Neill's cloying felicity. Loading up on paper plates of food, they took advantage of a mericfully abandoned canopy swing by the pool. As Jane munched away on her burger and bobbed along to the music (which by now had moved along to 90s Eurodance), Daria noticed that a drum kit and a collection of amps were being set up on the spacious, fairy-lit patio.

"What's all that about?" She wondered out loud.

"Hmf?" Said Jane, her mouth bulging with charred minced beef.

Daria rolled her eyes. "Whaddaya think, Lane? The purple unicorn over there drinking from the pool? I mean the band equipment."

Jane finished her mouthful. "I already told you, ya dope. Mystik Spiral are playing tonight."

Daria's eyebrows munitiously jumped above the rim of her glasses.

"They're back together?" She asked.

The next moment, the blaring hi-fi was silenced, and Andrew Landon took to the freshly constructed stage, grasping the microphone.

"Everyone, if I could have your attention please?..."

The ensuing exposition was a puff piece on the man's neighbours, co-workers and fellow members of Lawndale County citizens' board. The corny jokes that ornamented it earned both weak laughs and drunken, full-bodied guffaws from the crowd. Daria's head lolled upon her shoulder, the sugar crash, warm air and droning of Mister Landon sending her into a sleepy stupor.

The languorous pall was lifted with the words: "…Now let's get on with the party! Happy Independence Day, everybody!" and a wave of uneven applause.

Jane elbowed Daria in the ribs and indicated the lean, long-legged figure who stepped up to the mic, cradling a stressed and sticker-clad guitar.

"_I looked too long and lost her hand_

_So now you're primed to drag me down_

_My service may be yours, old man_

_But don't think you can trust me now_

_I'll muck out grime from Tartarus_

_I'll feed the subterranean fire_

_I'll preen the ticks off Cerberus_

_But during lunch I'll play my lyre_

_Ha! Did you think I'd break?_

_Old man, you are mistaken_

_I smell the flowers of Elysium…_

_Sing triumphant_

_My muse still burns deep down in me_

_Sing triumphant_

_Of my Orphean comedy!_

_Sing triumphant_

_I'm still the man I want to be_

_I write my own fate_

_In this Orphean comedy!..."_

Daria couldn't help but snigger mirthfully to herself as she joined in the riotous applause. This new song was punchy and energised, and amongst the powerful guitars and feisty percussion, she thought she detected a subtle yet sprightly homage to a certain famous overture also dedicated to the ancient music god. And the lyrics, though steeped in metaphor and willful self-determintion, were still so lovably Spiral-esque.

Knowing her voice would be lost in amongst the general cacophony, Daria joined in the refrain of "More! More!"

Flashing his warm blue eyes at his enchanted audience, Orpheus broke into another vigorous melody, playing his lyre and singing his beautiful laments well into the night.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

The party was starting to wind down, so it had become less of a challenge to push through the mellowed clumps of suburbanites, dozy and full of food and thinking of their soft beds.

Daria's eyes scanned the faces inside the sitting room. Where was he?

As the hi-fi rotated between its salver of CDs, a lull in the thumping music revealed the soft, telltale strumming of a guitar floating up from the sunken rec room.

Not wasting any more time, Daria followed the honeyed music to its wellspring.

"Put your index finger there, and your pinky there…"

"Like that?"

"Just like that."

With a laboured strum, a mournful minor chord flourished its way out of the guitar.

"Now your guitar gently weeps."

A peal of nymphish female laughter filled the closed-off room.

Daria stood at the door, watching an impromptu music lesson in progress. A congregation of Trent's students were draped slavishly in a circle around him, all of them lithe, gorgeous women ranging from little Beatrice Moreno to Stacy to Michelle Landon's flirtatious secretary. The only male in the group was Sandi's little brother Chris, who was just as rapt in gazing at his teacher as the others were.

Trent bowed over a wing chair, where Brittany's cheer squad pal Angie sat, the musician's treasured electric guitar in her clutches. His long, large, lovely fingers lay softly upon hers, positioning them to play a succession of chords.

He sang as she conscientiously played along:

"_I look at you all _

_See the love there that's sleeping_

_While my guitar gently weeps…"_

A ragged exhalation from Daria alerted them all to her presence.

"Hey!" Trent welcomed. "Wanna come and hear some more?"

Daria shook her head, averting her face from the alarming collection of stares that were suddenly upon her.

"No, it's okay. I needed to ask you about something… it can wait."

She turned to leave, but Trent beckoned: "No, please. You can ask me now, it's no problem."

She interlaced her hands in front of her, staring at the rug beneath her feet.

"Well… I've been told I have to either take a class or get a job for the rest of the summer… I was wondering if I could take guitar lessons with you…?"

Trent's face fell under genuine regret. "Oh, sorry Daria. But between all my other students and getting the band back together, I kinda don't have a space free at the moment. But, you know, maybe sometime later."

Daria nodded a little too insistently, and briskly turned away.

"Yeah, sure. That's fine," she mumbled.

She kept her eyes fixed to the floor. She climbed the stairs to the sitting room, struggled through the throng towards the back patio, into the night, across the lawn, off the property, down the street and trudged the few lonely blocks back home, fully feeling the severe gravity of her solitude.


	7. Chapter 7

**Fledglings' Frustration**

**Chapter VII**

_The choir of cricket song in the still Rhodesian night was uninterrupted. The persistent chirping insects did not notice the sick thud of two bodyguards falling dead upon the cobblestones._

_A whole manner of small, skittish nocturnal animals and roosting seabirds were often heard scuffling about amongst the hardy vegetation of the island. There would be no suspicions about the near silent tread of footsteps navigating the undergrowth of the old stone mansion's garden._

_Melody Powers made sure to pack away her blow-dart kit with care. The poison of the _Dendrobates Azureus_ was a hazardous substance, and could not be handled too cautiously. She tenderly swaddled the precious projectiles in their styrofoam casing, and secured the satchel attached to her boot as tight as possible. She was pretty sure that she had now gotten rid of all the personnel stationed outdoors. _

_Taking advantage of an obliging cypress tree, she climbed her way up until she was level with the second-storey balcony._

_The moon was full tonight, and traversing safely within the shadows had proved a challenge. She stopped briefly to peer between the tree's bristly foliage at its glacial glow. Beneath, tiny flecks of its light made the dark ocean dance._

_Well, time to get on with it, and do the deed._

_Arthur J. Valentine was a respected cultural attaché. He had come to Rhodes Town to propose the establishment of a sister-cityhood between the rustic Mediterranean settlement and Washington DC. There had been diplomatic unrest in recent times concerning Greece's olive and fig crops, which had been contaminated by what was officially declared as 'an unknown cause'. The threat of embargoes had aroused political ire, and harsh words had been flung by Greek diplomats concerning the proximity of new US military research centres to the nation's prime agricultural areas. The president was unwaveringly certain that this first gesture would spur on some sort of resolution. Of course, he was also unwaveringly certain that Kirk was better than Picard and Spongebob was the bestest and funniest cartoon ever._

_The assassination of Valentine by an 'unkown' assailant, possibly a disgruntled member of Greece's agricultural community, would hopefully add substance to America's failing political rationale. Especially considering that the even-tempered man had publically spoken out in favour of the Greeks. In a time of ever increasing international tension, Valentine had been hailed by progressives as a sort of Messianic figure: while surrounded by impulsive, pre-emptive strike happy cowboys, he was the single public figure who had been a voice for calm diplomacy and the collective worldwide interest of the common man. The loss of such a hero was sure to arouse the ire of even the most love-crazed Californian peace-niks. _

_In his day, Valentine had been a formidable agent. Melody Powers had always fondly remembered their mission to Tibet, in aid of transporting one of the most venerated Buddhist Lamas and an envoy of his monks safely across Chinese airspace for a visit to Japan. An attempt by a lone CPC operative to smuggle onto the plane had been made short work of by Valentine, who had downed the sucker with a single silent strike to one of his pressure points. This clean disposal had been accomplished without exposing any of the monks to a single trace of violence._

_The lovemaking had been equally exceptional. Stealing away brief evenings between missions, Valentine had turned her into a mewling creature of yeilding liquid with the rhythm of his charged yet tender caresses. Hotel suites across the world had known of the soft clink of wine glasses as he and Melody toasted another successful mission, the timbre of his ornamented guitar playing and seductive light baritone, the insensible abandon of the cries of their communion._

_And then one day, he said he'd grown tired of the killing. He begged Control for a position that was focused more on negotiating rather than striking. In light of his loyal service, he got his wish, but on the condition that he become a respectable family man to win the public's trust. The wife was some supermodel-turned-starlet who spent most of her free time adopting kids from the third world, who were subsequently raised by an army of nannies._

_It took a few precious minutes to grapple her leg over the whitewashed balustrade. Time was of the essence, but this close to her prey, she couldn't afford to make a single sound._

_The doors had thankfully been left open. Avoiding the thin filaments of moonbeams, she slinked through the shadows into the oversized bed-chamber._

_There were clothes everywhere. Typical. No matter how great his skill in the deadly arts, he'd always been the worst kind of slob._

_There was a rustling in the corner of the room. She whirled around; it was only a potted palm, its leaves agitated by the slight breeze drifting in from the night._

_One booted foot forward, then the next. Melody meticulously padded across the weathered stone floor, inching ever closer to the deeply breathing, prostrate lump in the middle of the ornate bed. Usually a rigid, cold serenity overcame her for these sorts of solo jobs, but now her heartbeat was raging in her ears._

_Outside, a lonely fruit bat screeched. She stopped dead, waited a few seconds, and began prowling along the floor once more._

_Finally, there he was. There was nothing for it but to extract the Indian kukri concealed in her bodice and sheath it in his breast. She anticipated the look of stiff terror and agony in his blue eyes, the last thing he would ever feel. A memory of a sleepless night wailing angrily into her tear-soaked dressing gown flitted through her mind._

_The lacquered handle of the dagger was warm from lying next to her flesh. The weapon slid out from between her bosoms, and the beautiful blade slid out of its scabbard. _

_The predator leaned over the slumbering man, waiting for the right moment, the dagger poised in mid-air. A refracted glint of moonlight played briefly upon its gleaming surface._

_He turned in his sleep, and his killer tremored in her suspended position. The moonlight fell full on his face._

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

She heard a dull, heavy, indistinct thud downstairs, and jumped in her seat at the computer.

The house was all hers tonight. Quinn was out with Stacy, Jane had the evening shift at Lackluster video. Her mother had an enormous case on her hands which required copious overtime, and her father had eagerly headed off to his first heart-smart cookery class at the Lawndale community centre. She thought she would use the time alone to write.

Perhaps the material of her latest Melody Powers story had agitated her imagination, but the noise downstairs couldn't have come from anything small and docile.

Taking care not to make any noise herself, she got up from her desk and pricked her ears for another telltale sound. Akin to her secret agent heroine, her heartbeat was raging in her ears.

Unmistakably, the kitchen door to the backyard slid open and slammed shut.

She rummaged in the dim for her cellphone, hiding somewhere in her musty backpack.

A few protracted seconds passed, and she thought she now heard a man clearing his throat.

Her finger froze on the '9' button of her recovered cellphone.

Was that a guitar?

Eventually, her fearful form creaked across the carpet, and slowly opened the catch to her window.

"_I can't do the talk like they talk on the TV_

_And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be_

_I can't do everything, but I'd do anything for you_

_I can't do anything except be in love with you_

_And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be_

_All do is keep the beat and bad company_

_All I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme_

_Juliet, I'd do the stars with you any time_

_Juliet, when we made love you used to cry_

_You said I love you like the stars above, I'll love you till I die_

_There's a place for us, you know the movie song_

_When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong?"_

She averted her eyes from him, and disappeared inside once more.

Trent could feel his entire body buckle.

Twice in as many months now, she had turned away from him. He had appealed to her interests, her sympathies, he had improved himself as an artist and as a man. Now that these avenues had been exhausted, so had the last of his hope.

What had he expected, exactly? That a woman of such formidable intellect, intergrity and insight would melt at the sound of a few maudlin verses, like some dewey-eyed pubescent? Trent cursed himself and his moonstruck illusions, yet cheerlessly persisted to finish his feeble song.

"_A lovestruck Romeo sings the streets a serenade_

_Playing everybody low with a lovesong that he made_

_He finds the streetlight, steps out of the shade_

_Says somethin' like 'You and me babe, how about it?'"_

He placed his guitar back in its case, and idly wondered if there would be any remnants of Mrs Moreno's leftover minestrone to tuck into back at Jesse's.

The kitchen door slid open. In a halo of yellowed light stood Daria, clutching the leatherbound book of Keats' poetry in her dainty ivory hands. Her voice was unsteady as she read out the verse:

"_Come then, Sorrow!_

_Sweetest Sorrow!_

_Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:"_

Here, her large, openly terrified eyes met his.

"_I thought to leave thee _

_And deceive thee, _

_But now of all the world I love thee best. _

_There is not one,_

_No, no, not one _

_But thee..."_

The book clattered softly upon the surface of the guitar case, and the unhurried passage of the stars stopped above their heads as their lips met.

Author's Notes: I've added the first seven chapters all in one go, but bear in mind that I am only just getting started with this saga. *rubs palms together deviously* I'll start adding more chapters once I've got more material, and it's worthwile enough to publish.


	8. Chapter 8

**Fledglings' Frustration**  
><strong>Chapter VIII<strong>

_"A glooming peace this morning with it brings  
>The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.<br>Go hence to have talk of more of these sad things,  
>Some shall be pardoned, and some punishéd.<br>For never was a story of more woe  
>Than this of Juliet and her Romeo." <em>

Credits began to roll on the screen, across the other side of the video store.  
>Jane's 4B swept across a fresh page in her artbook.<br>"Is that Romeo, Ms. Lane?"  
>"In a sense."<br>Demartino monitored the sketch slowly being brought to life by the swishes of Jane's pale hand. The gangly figure looked more like a chimerical mix of spider, sloth and hound dog than a man. Juliet was a wispy white being of clear light, at once delicate and scorching. Romeo plaintively reached out an ungainly claw to clutch at his lady love's gossamer fingers. His body language imparted his fretfulness not to crush her with the vigour of his passion and the force of his wiry build.  
>Jane tried to depict the two disparate hands intertwining, but struggled to position them effectively. She made greater and greater use of her eraser, zealously indenting the paper with more and more false strokes.<br>"Hmph!" She grunted, pushing away the book and casting the pencil down upon the counter top.  
>Her colleague watched this flare of artistic aggravation with quiet sympathy. He picked up the book from the benchtop, studying the artwork once again.<br>"There is a different spectre inhabiting this drawing than your previous works," he stated. "Instead of Logos, there is now Pathos. Surely this hasn't come from merely being made subject to Leonardo Dicaprio's dramatic chops?" He questioned, while switching the video on the silent screen from 'Romeo and Juliet' to 'The Big Lebowski'.  
>Still smarting from her failed attempt to unite her graphite lovers, she avoided Demartino's eyes and crossed her arms. "What difference does it make to you?"<br>The man sighed. "I apologise, I had no intention of striking a nerve," he told her. "I merely find it enjoyable to watch those daimons of yours come to life on the page. I can't help but be curious about the mind that spawns them." To demonstrate his deference, he turned to sort through the pile of returned, un-rewound videos piled beneath the counter.  
>"I'm still worried about my brother," She found herself saying.<br>"Ah. The troubador languishing in love?"  
>"He's slowly and painstakingly developing strength and self-confidence. I got excited for him… I urged him to go and serenade Daria beneath her window tonight."<br>Demartino shook his head. "Poor bastard's gonna be eaten alive."  
>"How do you know?" Jane blurted out.<br>A sardonic grin crept up Demartino's lips. "Ms Lane. It takes a woman of utter foolhardiness to accept such a gesture," he explained. "Every biological imperative womankind has tells her to spurn the advance of the male. One single look at history and zoology tells a grisly enough story, a trail of trauma, penetration, rape and defilement. And most offspring resulting from these unions are destroyed by other rival males, if not the forces of nature herself. Any finer, higher feelings that man may cherish— love or admiration or respect— are only small flowers growing on a thick, thorny bramble which has evolved to pierce and poison. Females who make themselves complicit to male desire are nothing more than idiots."  
>Jane squinted, trying to decode this diatribe. "Okay… at the moment, I'm just trying to figure out whether you're a feminist or a total misogynist."<br>"Both and neither, I suppose," Demartino responded, leaning on the counter. "Human behaviour is fraught with cruelty and self-interest. When I was in the thick of it as a teacher, I was all kinds of miserable. Now I have the luxury of distancing myself from the worst of the slings and arrows, I can make some sense of it."  
>Jane giggled despite herself. "You sound like Daria!"<br>"Which is why your brother will soon be nursing some devestating wounds. Be prepared to choose between siding with your kinsman or your best friend," he growled, almost sounding as if her were amused by the prospect of this suffering.  
>And then, an entirely astonishing sound tinkled in the warm evening air. A woman and a man laughed together as they entered the video store. Jane recognised the beloved voices right away.<br>She couldn't help but pull a Brittany Taylor. "OmiGOSH! You guys!"  
>It was not so surprising that Trent's large hand wound tenderly about Daria's waist, but that the girl was totally at ease with the contact, a dreamy smile imbuing her face with contentment.<br>"Guess what Janey, you're officially a genius." Trent announced.  
>His sister leapt out from behind the counter, snatching the couple in a stifling hug.<br>"God, it took you both long enough!" She exclaimed. "But what are you doing here?"  
>"My parents both came home and started making a big fuss. My mother asked Trent to stay for dinner, but when she started interrogating him about his long term career plans, I said that I'd agreed to walk you home."<br>"Yeesh, narrow escape," Jane remarked. "It's almost nine, you wanna go for pizza after my shift?"  
>The couple exchanged a quick look. "Actually Janey, we were kinda hoping to go somewhere by ourselves."<br>Something registered with Jane, and she heartily agreed. "Oh. Of course. No worries. Carpe Nox, lovebirds!"  
>Daria favoured her with a genuine smile. "Thanks, Jane."<br>"If you get in late, I'll tell Helen you were sharing cannoli and tea with Mr and Mrs Moreno."  
>After they left, Jane busied herself by dusting the already well dusted shelves, concentrating on the silent visage of Jeff Bridges upon the TV screen.<br>Once Demartino had finished organising the returned videos, he began placing them upon the shelves near Jane, and broke the silence.  
>"I believe, once more, I owe you an apology, Ms Lane."<br>"Okay," she said, sweeping a dust bunny from behind a copy of 'Pride and Prejudice'.  
>"It's easy to be misanthropic when nursing the memories of past wrongs. But when confronted with such benevolence and amity as that, it's downright rude to be so dismissive. Please believe me, I think it would be wonderful if your brother and Ms Morgendorffer could make it work."<br>"You just don't think they will," Jane muttered.  
>Demartino took a few long moments to answer. "Perhaps I'm a weak man. But as much as I try to rally a sense of faith, every fibre of reason and experience I hold in my body tells me to expect disappointment. In all honesty, I've found happiness and love to be a scarce commodity for everybody. It's much better to focus your energy on enjoying those brief flashes of light while they last, rather than trying to artificially sustain them."<br>She was arrested in her activity, and stared at her coworker.  
>He laughed grimly. "There is sympathy in those wide eyes, and a condescending pity to boot. You look upon me as if I were a starved and beaten dog, needing only a warm and loving home to curb my beastliness. You still cling to the hope that the world is not as cruel a place as your reason tells you it is. Ms Lane, there is something of a romantic fool swimming beneath your sharpness."<br>"You're awfully fatalistic," she said simply.  
>"It comes with the territory of growing old. I would find it a singular miracle of nature if you could maintain that charming mix of acuity and unspoiled devotion to ideals throughout your whole life."<br>"Just beause I value true friendship, it doesn't make me some dopey gushing sap!" Jane retorted.  
>Demartino shook his head. "No, it doesn't. As I said, the tang of your skepticism seems to be balanced by the power that human sympathies hold over you."<br>"You can tell an awful lot just from watching me draw," Jane remarked, raising an eyebrow.  
>Here he laughed again, mirthfully. "You are an original partner for tête-à-tête, Ms Lane. I shall miss these conversations when I head to Antwerp, with nothing but the commotion of the harbour and the guttural grunts of my fellow labourers to entertain me. But I see it is now ten minutes past the end of your shift. Good night."<br>As she closed the door to the shop behind her, Jane felt fully immersed in discomfiture. The sweet elation of Trent and Daria, finally wrapped around one another after years of awkward and stifled yearning, stood in stark contrast to Mister Demartino's grizzled cynicism. His vicious humour had been a source of pleasure to her this summer, but when it was pitched against the hopes she had of seeing the two people she loved most come together, she could not help but feel indignant. Jane had always fancied herself to be worldly, nonchalant, and above the youthful transgression of sentimentality. Considering the blackness of Demartino's outlook, she began to realise just how innocent and untried she was.  
>Perhaps with the destruction of her old family home, and the absence of her parents, Jane had endeavoured to fashion a new family for herself by fanning the flames of Trent and Daria's feelings for one another. It was if she had seen the best passing chance for a cosy emotional anchor in a frightening adult world, and had seized upon it to avoid the looming empty space of isolation. But, she reminded herself, this had resulted in a <em>coupling.<em> Jane was a third party.  
>"Tom? What are you doing here?"<br>The young man sat in the gutter outside Pizza King, a listless bouquet of faded white camellias slipping from his sweaty grasp.  
>He gave a sad, heavy nod in greeting, and Jane's heart broke for him.<br>"I just couldn't forget about her. All those sorority girls, spoiled and common, just reminded me what a jewel she was. Good thing I saw Trent's arm around her before I came up to her, or my humilation would've really been complete."  
>"Oh… Y'know, <em>that<em> was kinda going on years before you came on the scene. It was only a matter of time until it happened. It's just not something that could be helped."  
>Tom leant a hand to his cheek. "Yeah. You know, he really is a nice guy, I can't blame her. I mean, tall dark and handsome, and genuinely bohemian? Even <em>I'd<em> go out with him."  
>Jane smirked. "Maybe that's where you've been going wrong. Why not try and turn the heads of a few drunken frat boys next semester?"<br>Tom snorted. "If I _were_ gay, I'd hope you'd think I could do better than drunken frat boys!"  
>Jane offered her hand. "C'mon. Love's losers commiserate over a pie?"<br>"Sure."  
>As they ascended from the gutter, Jane playfully plucked one of the camellias from the discarded bouquet and tucked it behind Tom's ear.<br>"So what makes you one of love's losers?" He quizzed her.  
>"Oh, just my general romantic foolhood."<br>He made a face at her small, wistful smile.

***  
>The heat of July was compounded by merciless humidity. All of the air conditioned haunts in Lawndale suddenly became swinging hot spots, in a manner of speaking. Though the VHS was quickly falling away in favour of its digital successors, Lackluster Video began to burst with commotion.<br>"Look, some of the clientele are rude and snooty, there's no avoiding that. But most of them are perfectly reasonable. Doonan isn't one of those chain stores that pushes the hard sell ethos and aggressive sales tactics. All you need to do is say hi, monitor the dressing rooms and operate a register. And for that, you get a pretty awesome hourly rate."  
>Daria rolled her eyes. "I suppose."<br>Bored with perusing the shelf of pristine new DVDs, Brittany joined Jodie and Daria, offering them a share of her M&Ms.  
>"Why are you getting a retail job in the first place?" She asked.<br>Jane elected to explain. "Daria's mother wanted her to do something 'productive' with the rest of the summer.  
>"Then why not do something you'd actually enjoy?"<br>A leer formed on Jane's lips. "Oh, she _is. _When your little friend Angie quit guitar lessons after one session, Daria signed up."  
>Brittany mirrored the leer. "With <em>Trent? <em>"  
>Daria buried her face in her hands and waited for the flourish of catcalls to subside.<br>"Her mom wouldn't buy the story that she was actually learning guitar…"  
>"Which I <em>am, <em>" Daria insisted, promptly reddening.  
>"…Thus the push into respectable employment. There were no positions available at the library or the bookstore, so she gets to enjoy the rest of the summer working in high end boutique fashion."<br>"What if _Quinn_ comes shopping at this place?"  
>Jodie put a consolatory hand on her friend's shoulder. "If she does, I'll take over and you can hide in the back room. Honestly Daria, it'll be OK. It'll build your character."<br>"That has to be the most insidious expression ever," Daria exclaimed. "'Build your character'. Every time I hear that phrase uttered, I'm inevitably dragged into some humiliating and pointless exercise that only leaves me disillusioned and regretful. The reason people use the phrase 'build your character' is because they can't find any greater justification for something wholly degrading and futile."  
>Jodie shook her head. "Oh, Daria."<br>" I don't blame you Jodie," Daria added, frowning. "I appreciate that you're trying to make the best of a bad situation."  
>"I only hope that one day, you'll learn how to do the same," Jodie replied with undisguised concern.<br>A mug of heavy, hot air signified the opening of the door.  
>"Woah, is this a video shop or a coffee lounge?" Trent blurted out.<br>A light came into Daria's eyes as she rose, leaving her sour feelings on the carpet. The girls had seen that smile a few times now, they all agreed that it beautified her considerably.  
>"How was practice?" She drifted to his awaiting arms for a kiss.<br>"Nick and Max finally agreed on the right tempo for one of the new songs. Since we've started practicing in Jess' basement, not only have they started getting on a lot better, but our sound's gotten a bit tighter."  
>"It's amazing what cool air and good acoustics can do for a creative temperament," Daria quipped, not flinching as his arms snaked about her back.<br>"You guys all coming to the gig at McGrundy's on Friday? They want us to play our softer stuff, but at least the floor isn't sticky like it is at the Zōn."  
>Jodie smiled. "That'll be a good way to wind down after your first shift, Daria."<br>Trent frowned. "So it's official? Your mom's not gonna budge?"  
>"Regrettably not. Pray for me," Daria begged him.<br>"I still say you should have told her you were working on your writing," Trent asserted. "I mean, that's gonna be your future, surely she couldn't object to you following your dream."  
>"I did," Daria informed him, "and she just said I'll have plenty of time for that on my days off."<br>"Oh come on Daria!" Brittany squeaked from her position on the carpet. "You're strong, you'll survive. And when worse comes to worse, just administer a bit of self medication." She chucked another packet of M&Ms over to the girl. Her fumbling hands missed the projectile, but it was quickly intercepted by Trent's nimble fingers. He opened the bag and offered her a handful of the sweets.  
>"You're gonna be paying for those, aren't you?" Came a menacing voice from behind the counter.<br>Demartino had emerged from the back room, casting an unfavourable glare on the group.  
>"Um, sure thing, Mister D," Brittany stammered, placing a small pile of cash on the counter.<br>Jodie looked down at her watch. "I gotta go pick my brother up from daycare anyway."  
>Within a few moments, the group had completely dispersed, leaving Jane to clear away the refuse of half-empty soda bottles and chip packets.<br>"You know, they weren't exactly doing anything wrong." She couldn't help but declare.  
>"I took this job for two explicit reasons," Demartino stated. "One, to supplement my income while shipping jobs were thin on the ground. Two, because it's not a teaching job. With such a concentration of <em>former students<em> before me, I was beginning to think I was back at Lawndale High."  
>He turned away again, looking for some task to busy himself with.<br>Jane asked: "Why are you going overseas?"  
>A brief silence. "I'm sure you're clever enough to figure it out."<br>"Yeah yeah yeah. Get out of Lawndale, sure. But there are a dozen port cities up and down the Eastern Seaboard where I'm sure you could get a regular shipping job. Going overseas is more expensive and requires a whole saga of beauracratic hassle. You don't strike me as as a wide-eyed greenhorn who's yet to see the world. Why overseas?"  
>He finally turned to face her, his eyes morose and tired.<br>"If you are looking for a tragic history of deprevation or dissipation, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I'm just a sad middle aged man, who, like other sad middle aged men, has a chain of regrets and disenchantment behind him. There is nothing noble or romantic about the blunders and misfortunes in my life, any more than any other poor schmuck. I've finally summoned the fortitude to make a move for the sake of my own tenuous sanity… and all I want is peace. Just peace."  
>Jane fiddled with a stray pencil from the counter. In a small voice, she asserted "I don't think you're sad."<br>Demartino's severe look softened a little. "Then you are very kind, Ms Lane."  
>"No," she corrected him. "Anyone would admire the actions you've taken."<br>"My actions in the last year or so, perhaps. Before then, I can't vouch for." He sneered bitterly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Fledglings' Frustration  
>Chapter IX<strong>

_Excerpt from 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte_

_***_  
>Daria awoke sweaty and flustered, her heart pattering wildly. The last traces of a nightmare drifted before her mind's eye— she was a mistress of one of the Borgias, running afoul of her master by engaging in a tryst with a court musician. The enraged noble had taken it upon himself to disembowel her with a jewel encrusted dagger, she excruciatingly alive and shrieking in agony as he gleefully sliced her open and hacked away at her entrails. The cruel tittering of some onlooking ladies-in-waiting reached her from behind her assailant.<br>She looked about her bedroom, dim with early sylvan threads of daylight, and took a deep breath as full consciousness steadily ebbed back into her.  
>There was an open copy of 'Rogues, Royalists and Radicals: The Mad Magnates &amp; Monarchs of Medieval Europe' by Wendolene Willoughby-Drûpe sitting on the bedcovers, and she dashed it to the floor with a heated grunt.<br>Her first shift at Doonan was to be today. Twenty minutes later she was downstairs, brooding over her coffee and toast and dreading what was to come.  
>"Honey, it's three five hour shifts a week for the next six weeks," Helen told her as she downed an espresso and stuffed a piece of fruit into her briefcase. "It's not a prison sentence."<br>Daria did not look up at her. "Then why do I feel as if it's just the start of a very long surrender?"  
>Helen watched her daughter slump over the table. Instead of grabbing the keys to her SUV and rushing off to work, she sat down beside her.<br>"I had a friend in college who eventually became a novelist," she said gently. "There were times when she had to work at three different jobs just to make ends meet. You well know that the life of an artist is not an easy one. I could have let you stay home all summer, and the summer after that, and so on. So that once you left college, and entered a world in which there is competition for jobs and publishing deals alike, you'd have been terrified and clueless about how to take your first step. Had I done that, I would have cheated you."  
>Daria raised her head. Her eyes were still cast down, and she examined her mother's hands, weathered with years of almost constant activity.<br>"Look at what Jane and Trent have managed to accomplish this summer. Especially Trent. I think it was a lucky day when you came across those two—you have not only an example to follow, but two more people who love you and share your creative spark."  
>Helen stood, jingling the car keys in one hand, and stroking her daughter's thick hair with the other.<br>"It's not just about slaving away for a paycheck," she continued. "It's about putting yourself into new experiences, meeting new people, going through the highs and lows of a life lived fully and honestly. It's what turns an earnest, clever young authoress into the creator of literary masterpieces."  
>Her low heels clicked away on the kitchen tiles, towards the front door.<br>"Have a good day at work, sweetie."  
>"You too, Mom."<p>

While she had been fearing long hours that would stretch into days, unfathomable and ridiculous store policy, and a constant stream of abuse and derision from fashion fiend customers, Daria's first day at Doonan was, well… dull. As beige as the boutique's soft, unadorned colour scheme.  
>It seemed to attract an older set than the hip young floozies who shopped at Cashman's. Most of the clientele looked to be mature professional women who aspired more to an Audrey Hepburn aesthetic than a Zsa Zsa Gabor one. True, the occasional country club trophy wife did swan in and flaunt her ill manners, looking at both Jodie and Daria as if they were vermin that spread disease, but mostly the exchanges were unexciting and straightforward.<br>At a lull in the afternoon, Daria sorted the overflowing rack of garments that had been retrieved from the dressing rooms.  
>"Two thousand bucks for a cocktail dress?" She couldn't help exclaiming.<br>Jodie grimaced from her position behind the till.  
>The manager, Betty, gave a sly laugh. "Oh, my dear. You remind me of my own college days when I perused the flea markets for cheap military jackets and vintage brooches. You do know that most designers will charge double that."<br>Daria shook her head in disbelief, though now handled the silk and organza gown with twice the care and delicacy as before. She calculated that at her current expenses, rate of pay and given hours, she would have to work at this place for at least six months before she would be able to afford such an item.  
>"Oh, but there are employee discounts, of course," Betty mentioned. "Especially for our bright young college girls. You go to Raft, yes?"<br>Daria nodded. Betty inhaled and exhaled in what seemed a needless and luxuriant manner. "Oh, I could just picture a dazzling literary genius sweeping through that majestic old campus, crisp with gilded autumn foliage, sporting a zhuzzy pair of ankle boots and one of the exquisite fitted wool frocks of the upcoming fall collection. A copy of Whitman's poems in her hand, a beret perched upon her flowing locks, a thoughtful smile upon her full lips."  
>"Does that image include the obscenely expensive price tag fluttering in the breeze behind her?"<br>Betty laughed again, her hand clutching Daria's shoulder. "Oh Jodie, this girl is priceless!"

After the store closed for the day, Jodie and Daria took the bus to McGrundy's brew pub for the Mystik Spiral gig. Like Doonan, McGrundy's catered mostly to the over twenty-fives set, due to its drawcard of various inhouse ales.  
>The smell of malt and damp wood leapt upon the two of them as they entered. Almost instantly, they were also met with a "Hey!" from a table near the dance floor where Jane was waving to them wildly. Trent and Jesse were absorbed in a basket of onion rings and a pitcher of beer, while Brittany had her head buried in a book.<br>"What's that?" Daria asked the blonde girl.  
>She smiled, and showed the book title: 'Tales Of Mystery &amp; Imagination'.<br>"Poe," Brittany stated. "Cheerful stuff. I remember seeing you reading 'The Telltale Heart' back at school."  
>Daria felt touched. Or as touched as she could be in regards to a bunch of stories about death and darkness.<br>The evening crept on, and after the crowd had thickened substantially, the boys took to the stage. The music they played here was something of a departure from much of their older neo-grunge pieces. New strains of influence were beginning to seep in, lyrically dense folk-rock and the soundscapes of avant-garde post rock added nuance and some level of sophistication to their performance. Daria observed the applause coming from around her between songs. The older adults sitting around them in buttoned shirts and cable-knit sweaters seemed to appreciate this sound, probably much more than they would have appreciated works like 'Every Dog Has Its Day' and 'Below Sub-Zero'. Daria suddenly realised that her beau would be twenty-five himself at the close of August. Was Trent softening as he grew older, or was he merely learning to cater to the tastes of different crowds?  
>The next song, the last of the first set, was an entirely new composition. It was slower and more wistful than its predecessors. Huskily crooned lyrics, about a tenderly cultivated love that had finally flowered after a long bleak age, tumbled from the lips of the band's frontman. Daria hunched over, feeling her face burn and her heart hammer.<br>"You're all sweaty," she remarked after he'd hopped down off the stage.  
>He chuckled, wiping his forehead. "How about we get some more drinks, and head out to the beer garden for some fresh air?"<br>"My treat," she proffered, taking his warm clammy hand.  
>"Oh yeah, that's right. You can be my sugar momma now, working girl," he joked.<br>"Maybe until you earn your first platinum record. Then you're buying me that mansion in the Hamptons."  
>Trent nodded casually. "Sure, why not."<br>She leant into him, and they laughed together as they headed toward the bar.  
>Jane took her own lukewarm cup of soda and stretched her legs, drifting amongst the crowd. Though the venue wasn't at full capacity, it was certainly large enough to evoke the word 'stifling'.<br>"Ow!"  
>"Oh! Sorry…"<br>The redhead whose heel spike had accidentally found Jane's unfortunate toes had linked arms with another girl in braided pigtails, and the two intertwined companions struggled to find their balance again.  
>"What are you two doing here?"<br>"What, like we're not allowed?" Quinn challenged. "Stacy is, like, Trent's best student— he's even said so!"  
>Stacy smiled. "We've just been hiding up the back 'cuz Quinn didn't wanna embarrass her sister."<br>"Actually, crazy as it sounds, I think Daria would be happy to know that you've come along," Jane responded thoughtfully.  
>"Do you think so?" Quinn's voice actually sounded hopeful.<br>"Not that I'd swoop down on her and ask to hang out," Jane added hurriedly, her eyes catching Daria and Trent heading out to the beer garden, arm in arm. "I think her attentions are, uh, diverted elsewhere at the moment."  
>The girls caught Jane's meaning instantly. Stacy giggled til she went red in the face, and Quinn shuddered. "Whatever. T. M. I. thanks."<br>Jane casually waved the duo off, and slumped down on an errant barstool.  
>Out of the corner of her eye, in a gloomy corner of the pub, she espied the hot, pin-prick glow of a cigarette. Instinctively her head turned towards the light source, and in the shadows she made out the unmistakable profile of Mister Demartino. An arm flung over the back of his chair, legs crossed, he stared out across the bustling room with severe dark eyes that glinted almost as intensely as the cigarette he drew on. It was the most unkempt she had ever seen him— a few straggly dark grey tresses messily flopped upon his lined brow, and even in the darkness his heavy stubble was unmistakable. He wore a black double breasted jacket, and slowly slugged at a pint of dark amber ale.<br>She wished to continue watching him, yet her usual impulse to be gregarious was constricted. Instead she rose and retreated to her table, hoping that he had not seen her and been disturbed by her presence. He had seemed to be unaware of her, lost in some abyss of a reverie.  
>In some minutes, Mystik Spiral assembled on the stage once more, and the venue was again saturated with the sound of wailing guitars and smoky vocals. Jane could not help wondering what the solitary, saturnine figure in the corner was making of all this unashamed and youthful expression.<p>

***

The weeks of July sluggishly dragged by in uninterrupted heat. Daria and Jane both settled into the rhythmic torpor of serving customers, and constantly cleaning an area that was constantly being messed. A great respite lay in the fact they both performed this wearisome ritual in the comfort of air conditioning. After these lingering shifts, they would become infinitesimally richer, minus the contingency of pizza and small impulse purchases. Meanwhile, Trent was truly beginning to own his self-applied identity of 'professional musician'. Stacy was beginning to eclipse Jesse in her mastery of diminished chords, and Sandi's little brother Chris could play almost an entire album's worth of Beatles songs by heart. The anguish of the Payday was now but a memory, yet still acknowledged as a harsh learning curve. Neither one of the Lane siblings had yet heard from their parents.

The evenings and days off were the times they all lived for. Comparing notes, joking at their uncertain futures, yet cementing the reassuring bond that had continued to crystallise over this Summer.  
>One evening in August saw Trent, Jesse, Jodie, Brittany and Stacy all over at the Morgendorffers for a night of junk food and bad movies. As Jane cast her gaze upon the chattering, laughing clump of companions, she couldn't help but be a little surprised at the odd combination. She had known that she and Daria would remain close right into adulthood, but some of the other relationships forged were much more unexpected.<br>Trent and Stacy produced their guitars, and Brittany surprised everybody with an encyclopeadic knowledge of David Bowie lyrics. The blonde girl, once the harbinger of mindless football cheers, completely owned her impassioned (though somewhat squeaky) rendition of 'Life on Mars'.  
>Jane wondered how the group would shift given another year's trials and tribulations. Now that a common school and a common territory were denied them, only the strength of genuine mutual affection remained as the means of sustaining their friendships. Who would grow closer, and who would drift away?<p>

***

Jane fiddled with the biro in her hands as she skimmed and re-skimmed the printout of classes for semester one of her sophomore year. The document had arrived in the Morgendorffers' mailbox only that morning, having been repeatedly redirected in the post, trying to find its misplaced recipient. The envelope was now in a sorry state, scribbled on and battered, and much later than the missives intended for the other BFAC students.  
>"Studies in Creative Strategies," she read out in a disbelieving tone. "Sounds more like a business seminar than an art class."<br>Demartino was refilling the soda fridge. Without turning around he grunted, "If you have any choice in what to sign up for at this stage, I'd go with whatever classes offer the most opportunity to paint- rather than sitting in a lecture hall and listening to the dressed-up opinions of some pompous academic."  
>Jane grinned. "Remind me what you used to do for a living?"<br>"I was some pompous academic, of course!"  
>Well, 'History of Art' was a core theory subject, and Jane didn't much mind that. 'Techniques in Oil Painting' was also a definite yes, though 'Composition and Proportion' would be a good option as well. 'Studies in Art Appreciation and Criticism', however, she would avoid like a pep rally.<br>She looked up from the sheet, and noticed Demartino glancing at the clock on the wall yet again. His desire for its hands to tick over to the closing time of eleven p. m. was entirely palpable. It was a dark, overcast Saturday that threatened rain, and therefore a busy evening lay ahead for both of them. And to compound matters, it was to be Demartino's final shift at the store. Just as Jane would soon be off to Boston once more to reimmerse herself in college life, in a few short weeks Demartino would be leaving Lawndale behind him, probably forever.  
>"You're itching to get to Antwerp, no doubt," Jane posited.<br>"It's mostly the chance for a genuine change that I anticipate, to live in a town where no-one knows me as creepy old 'Mister D'. I'll be living in a cramped flat and working hard, but the greatest luxury will be the glory of anonymity."  
>"Aw, c'mon, what about the prospect of day trips to Holland? You'll be able to partake in the legalised-"<br>Demartnio cleared his throat loudly, just as Jane noticed a little girl skipping up to the counter, holding up a copy of Don Bluth's 'Anastasia' for her to scan out. The child's parents eyed Jane warily.

For the next few hours, the duo were denied the luxury of chatter and rambling musings- the heavy leaden clouds outside seemed to have driven half of Lawndale into Lackluster Video, looking for a cheap way to wile away what would no doubt be a dreary, wet night. At one point, a fight even broke out over the last copy of 'American Pie'. Demartino had to leap between the two combatants, threatening to expel them from the premises if they couldn't negotiate peacefully.  
>"Anthony!" O'Neill approached the counter with copies of 'Dead Poets' Society' and 'Cry Freedom'. "I'm so excited to hear that you'll be heading off to Europe to follow your dreams. Promise me that you'll email me your new details so we can stay in touch."<br>Jane was surpised to see a full smile lighten Demartino's face. "I'll be sure to, Tim. Hopefully you'll find the time to visit."  
>A copy of 'Alien' was angrily slammed down on top of 'Cry Freedom'. Janet Barch eyed Demartino with undisguised venom.<br>"I'm afraid Timothy is going to be too busy preparing for our wedding to go off gallavanting across the globe. We have our _own_ life to plan."  
>Demartino did not dignify her with a response. He mechanically scanned the videos out, exhaling sharply and endeavouring to pretend that Barch was not there.<br>"Take care in this vile weather, Tim." He said to his old co-worker, his voice gentle and full of affection.  
>He held the bag of videos out to O'Neill, but it was snatched violently way by Barch. She dragged her partner away, slamming the shop door behind her.<br>Jane watched as Demartino turned away from the counter, frowning and rubbing his temples.  
>"Woah, no way! Mister D?"<br>They both whirled around. Kevin Thompson smirked at them, a Lawndale Lions jersey sitting crookedly on his broad shoulders, a tarty blonde clucthed in his arms, and a stack of low brow teen comedies waiting to be scanned.  
>"Omigod, that is so funny. You're a video clerk, Mister D? Didya get fired or something?"<br>The blonde giggled.  
>Jane quickly began scanning the videos out, as Demartino remained silent, staring at Kevin.<br>"You know that I gotta football scholarship to Middleton, right? I'm starting there in September! I'm gonna be playing college football, it's gonna be awesome!"  
>Jane felt her heartbeat accelerate, as Demartino continued wordlessly staring at the dunderheaded boy.<br>"Isn't that, like, ironical or some stuff? Like, I'm gonna be a big sports star at college and you're just, like, gonna be stuck in Lawndale taking orders and suff? And you're all old, too! You'll probably hafta-"  
>Less than a few seconds passed. Demartino had leapt over the counter, and shoved Kevin's stunned, slackened bulk up against the glass shop front so forcefully that a spider-web crack blossomed out from the place where the victim's dense head had struck it.<br>Demartino's large hands clawed Kevin's sides, the boy was rendered powerless with shock.  
>"I should kill you where you stand, you smarmy little shit!"<br>The sick sound of Kevin's head striking the glass again was drowned out by the frantic screeching of the tarty blonde. Then came another voice over the chaos-  
>"For Godsake, Mister Demartino! He's not worth it!"<br>A smooth, pale hand fell upon the weathered talons which had seized the boy.  
>The infuriated man's gaze drifted to find a pale, unlined face, wide with genuine concern.<br>He slackened, still shaking with anger. Jane led him over to the rickety stool behind the counter to sit down. She swiftly passed the store's first aid kit to the blonde, who had stopped shrieking and was now pawing at her whimpering boyfriend like a mother cat with its kitten.  
>"You saw nothing here," Jane declared to the few other customers who still lingered in the shop. "Now scram, it's not your job to clean this mess up!"<br>They left, reluctantly giving up on their rubbernecking. Once the blonde had administered a few clumsy band-aids to the bump on Kevin's head, the couple left as well.  
>"We'll never shop here again!" Was the blonde's parting squeak.<br>Jane approached the still trembling Demartino, offering him a bottle of water from the fridge to calm his nerves.  
>"It's ten forty," she told him. "Let's blow this joint."<p>

***

He was still near-catatonic, and she didn't want to leave him alone.  
>He sat on the bonnet of his beaten-up Toyota hatchback for a while, and Jane sat next to him. The whispered rush of the distant traffic and the cool night air helped to soothe the both of them, and eventually Demartino had collected himself enough to speak.<br>"I'm hungry." He took another sip on his bottle of water. "There's an all night diner I know of. If you don't think it too ungentlemanly, would you like to join me?"  
>She gladly hopped into the passenger seat of his car.<br>The place was standard issue, a linoleum floor and a radio on the counter switched to golden oldies. Jane turned down the waitress' offering of sludgy coffee, as neither of them could do with any more nervous stimulation. Demartino stared out the window into the moonless night as he chewed slowly on his toasted club sandwich. She thought he looked a fair bit calmer now.  
>"I could've killed him. I could've ripped his carcass apart with my bare hands."<br>"But you didn't," she said pointedly.  
>"Because you were there," he growled faintly. "If I hadn't had a steadying hand and voice of reason..." He stabbed at a stray sliver of ham on his plate with a sharp toothpick.<br>Jane tried to look him in the eyes, but his gaze was still downcast. "Then I'm glad that I was there. You're on the eve of a whole new life. Imagine what would've happened to you if you'd..."  
>As she trailed off, he chuckled darkly, a smile baring his teeth. "She saves me from committing a violent crime, and she's just glad she was there." He finally looked up at her. "You really are unusual."<br>The girl sunk back in her seat, chewing uncertainly on a cold french fry.  
>"Thank you. I mean that. Thank you, Jane."<p>

***

He drove her home through the abandoned streets. The car radio, low and distorted, relayed a diatribe from president Bush. He was determined to find those weapons of mass destruction. Jane's gaze alternated between the black trees whizzing by, and the half-illuminated face of her driver. Eventually they reached the kerb outside the Morgendorffers'.  
>"I suppose we should say farewell. Unless a collection of your works finds an audience in the galleries of some far-flung port city, we probably won't see each other again."<br>Jane nodded. "I guess not."  
>"Though if I do see a Jane Lane exhibition advertised wherever I happen to end up, I'll make damn sure to brave the crowds of adoring aficianados."<br>She laughed.  
>"I'm perfectly serious."<br>It was hard not to be affected by such an earnest sentiment. She held out her hand to him, memorising her final glimpse of this curious man, his eyes still glinting feircely at her through the dark.  
>They shook hands.<br>"Good luck, Ms Lane."  
>"You too, Mr Demartino."<br>The rain began to bucket down the moment she stepped inside the house.  
>The furious wall of water did not relent. She showered, brushed her teeth, and observed an ungodly hour of the morning on the bedside clock as she turned down her blanket. For a few unbearable minutes she lay there in the dark, listening to the downpour, interspersed with cracks of lightning. Sleep was a distant and unreachable universe. Far too much was playing before her mind's eye.<p>

Instead she grabbed her sketchbook and pencils, and fell to sketching a face: what sort of face it was to be she did not care or know. She took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon she had traced a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave her pleasure; her fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin: of course, some jetty black hair was wanted, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead.  
>Now for the eyes: she had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. She drew them large; she shaped them well: the eyelashes she traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. "Good! But not quite the thing," she thought, as she surveyed the effect: "They want more force and spirit;" and she wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly- a happy touch or two secured success.<br>She looked at it, she smiled at the speaking likeness, she was absorbed and content. She had a friend's face under her gaze.


	10. Chapter 10

**Fledglings' Frustration**  
><strong>Chapter X<strong>

The students began to sluggishly ooze out of the lecture theatre, and Daria patiently awaited the bustling in the aisles to recede. They were all no doubt heading off to laze in the last decent sunlight of the year and graze on the bain-marie delicacies at the campus eateries - her own stomach was in knots. It had been six weeks since she'd summoned the courage to email Professor Byrne the first few chapters of her latest "Melody Powers" novella, and she had not heard a single word of response since. Daria insistently assumed that it was only the many duties of the semester that were keeping the professor from providing feedback. Out of all her instructors, Byrne had by far won the most respect from the girl. She had a cutting sense of humour, similar literary tastes, and like Daria, had a frank and unapologetic desire for the truth.  
>She started to edge her way down the still crowded aisle, worrying she would miss the Professor if she took any more time. Inadvertently she brushed shoulders with Seth, a toothy fratboy whom Daria supposed had successfully skewed all of last year's essays into self-congratulatory spiels on his own assumed sexual prowess. 'Assumed' being the operative word.<br>"Hey gorgeous," he flashed a Hoover Dam-sized grin at her.  
>She ignored him, unconsciously clutching at the small diamond pendant around her neck. It had been a gift from Trent the night before she returned to Raft, paid for with a fair chunk of his guitar lesson money. (Quinn had spit chips in envy when she'd seen the delicate jewel.) She then inadvertently found herself musing upon what an effective bludgeon that the copy of 'The Tale Of Genji' in her backpack would be.<br>"Professor Byrne?" Her mousy utterance caused the small woman's head to snap around, and a brief smile flickered upon her face in return.  
>"How can I help you, Morgendorffer? I assume you'll have no trouble with the assignment this week. If you need a copy of the Waley translation to look at, I can give you a link to an on-line edition." The Professor's own copy of 'Genji' made a solid thump as she dropped it into her valise.<br>"Um, actually..." Daria's fingers twisted around each other frantically, "I was wondering if you'd had a chance to read the excerpt of my story..."  
>"'Melody Powers'?" Byrne did not stop packing her notes away. "I found it quite underwhelming, Morgendorffer, well beneath what I expect of you."<br>The businesslike tone of her assessment did nothing to soften the abrupt and unexpected blow.  
>"Secret agents in high-heeled boots do not a Pulitzer prize earn. It just seemed as if you'd read too many Ian Flemings and Danielle Steeles over the summer, and had channelled all that escapism into an infantile fantasy of your own."<br>Hoping that none of the scorching humiliation she was feeling had seeped into her expression, Daria swiftly turned to go.  
>"It was well told," Byrne continued, "there's no doubt you can craft a beautiful phrase. But at this stage in your artistic life, you are capable of something much more mature." She paused, and looked at her student. "I suppose we all have to go through that fairy-tale stage at some point. Our own 'Tales of Angria', so to speak. But with your skill, you should be well beyond it now. You don't want to end up some pulp fiction hack, do you?"<br>Daria muttered a sober "OK, thanks," and trudged out of the lecture theatre, the weight of the books in her backpack having increased tenfold.

***

Jane began to pick at the fluffy lumps of deconstructed muffin on Daria's plate, striving for a reaction.  
>"Yo, Silent Bob. You've barely uttered two syllables since ya sat down. What's a girl gotta do to get you to dish?"<br>She rattled out a long, lingering sigh, hoping it would fill the dead air. The humiliation of having her latest work so effectually shredded by her favourite teacher had been bad enough. The prospect of sharing this with anyone else just seemed as if it would help to confirm Professor Byrne's assertion that Melody Powers was a feeble and hackneyed heroine. And, despite herself, Daria had gotten quite attached to Melody over the years of their adventures together.  
>The two friends were sharing Saturday afternoon in a Boston coffee shop, having tired of the ersatz Pizza King franchise they usually met at (it seemed to draw an intolerable number of fratboys through its glass-panelled doors during the weekends). Located a few blocks away from the BFAC campus, it was swarming with alternative chic: piercings, T-shirts bearing droll progressive slogans, and portfolio cases groaning under the weight of artistic output. Despite a few acrid tangs of pretension and youthful self-righteousness, it suited the girls far better than their old, distinctly Lawndalian, fast-food hangout.<br>Daria tried to avoid Jane's gaze, concentrating on a stain on the table.  
>"Hey, c'mon. You're going to get me all worried and clucky. And you don't wanna see me when I'm clucky."<br>She finally looked up, and the soft concern in her companion's eyes finally drove her to comply. Wordlessly, she withdrew a hard copy of the story from her bag and slid it across the table. She had been reluctant to show this to Jane— the character of Arthur J. Valentine would be easily translated by her.  
>"I showed this to one of my Professors, and they said it was just juvenile crap."<br>"And those were their exact words?" Jane questioned. She read the title page, and her face lit up. "Hey! Melody Powers on another whirlwind adventure!"  
>Daria groaned.<br>"Aw, c'mon. Any brainiac schlub who disses the divine Miss Melody wouldn't know a good story if it bit 'em in the ass. What's she up to this time?"  
>"She joins forces with the Greek Secret Service to destroy a US military research base which is contaminating the nation's olive crops."<br>"Oooh, sleeping with the enemy. Juicy. I wonder how she'll get out of this one?"  
>Daria cringed a bit as Jane's eyes began to scan the first few pages. She made an attempt to rein in her self-consciousness by downing a large gulp of her lukewarm latte.<br>Jane had fallen into earnest reading now, and for a few long minutes Daria took to fidgeting to ease the tension. When she began drumming her fingers on the table, Jane looked up.  
>"I don't know what you're worried about. This is good stuff. I know I'm not a professor of literature, but if we all let <em>them<em> decide what was worthy of going into print, bookstores would be full of dry, ponderous academic essays."  
>"Might be an improvement on the gush of romance novels, diet books and celebrity-penned children's' stories," Daria mused.<br>The black-haired girl smiled. "Actually, I think this is the moment to show you something of my own."  
>"Can't that wait for getting drunk at a sorority kegger and an urge to experiment?" Daria quipped.<br>"Oh shush." Jane reached into her own bag and withdrew a particularly weathered-looking sketchbook. She flipped through the wax-and-charcoal stained pages until she found what she was looking for.  
>"I'm not sure this is exactly how you picture her, but…" She revealed a vivid ink illustration of a toned, commanding woman in fatigues and black strappy pumps, a braided ponytail coiled about her powerful shoulders and her mascaraed eyes set high on the horizon.<br>"At the risk of sounding glib," Jane said, "I like to think of her as Pippi Longstocking all grown up."  
>Daria took the book out of Jane's hands to examine the drawing more closely.<br>"Jane, this is terrific."  
>The artist revelled in the delight of such a good appraisal. "She's always been my favourite of the stuff you've done. Again, I don't wanna sound like a numb-nut, but the Melody Powers stories are just so much more… fun than your more serious stuff."<br>Daria noticed the signature and date inscribed in the corner. "June 1999? You did this a while back!"  
>"There are more," Jane informed her, gesturing for her to turn the pages. Daria flicked through the subsequent artworks, feeling a little leap of pleasure as she recognised scenes from her heroine's various missions.<br>"There's Team Algiers… and the bunker in Bogota… there's Control and Murchison… and you did the fight scene on top of the Space Needle in 'The Case of the Silver Tongue'!..." The clean, angular black and white forms imbued the picture plane with a stylish sense of film-noir-esque flair, and Melody stood out in each picture as a sly and unflappable spitfire in a world of sleaze and patriarchal disarray. "Why didn't you show me these before?"  
>Jane smiled abashedly. "Back in high school, you sometimes got really touchy about other people reading your work for anything other than class. I figured you may have been a bit defensive about Melody back then." Off Daria's reaction, she added "you're much better now, of course. Anyway, I s'pose this just shows how much I believe in these stories. Or something like that." Jane shrugged off the brief moment of schmaltz with another forage from Daria's crumb-laden plate.<br>A wash of warmth trickled through the bespectacled girl, which just began to erode the dense feeling of shame that Professor Byrne had laden her with.  
>"You know what, can I keep this?" Jane asked, holding up the manuscript with reverence. "It might be fun to do some more drawings of Melody's latest caper."<br>Thinking of the more intimate elements of the story, Daria squirmed.  
>"I dunno… some parts of this story are kinda personal."<br>"Yeah, yeah, so the Valentine character is based on Trent. Isn't that a good thing? The most dynamic, startling art is inspired by things of flesh and carbon, rather than the phantasms of the ether."  
>Daria was momentarily taken aback by this sudden bout of lyricism. "Come again, Lane?"<br>"I mean… don't all the best writers put stuff from their own lives into their work?"  
>"They do," Daria affirmed.<br>Jane grinned. "Awesome. I promise you I'll do justice to the story."

Daria still had to tackle a few lingering misgivings about watching Jane leave that evening, the seventy-three freshly bounded pages gripped tight in her clutches. The author was invoking the highest reaches of her faith to allow her bold, admittedly somewhat campy brainchild to be handled like this by someone else. It had been enough of a leap to e-mail the story to Professor Byrne. After the blunt rebuke of her mentor, sharing it with yet another set of eyes felt a little like some miracle of masochistic folly. However, she reminded herself that she could not have put her trust in anyone better than Jane Lane.

***

The idea came to her one afternoon during an especially tedious art history lecture on Mannerist composition. Having long since given up on note-taking, Jane had begun to absently sketch a few action poses of Melody Powers in fisticuffs against Clive Camobotham, the rugged old MI6 agent who would eventually reveal to the heroine the true nature of the "research" plants destroying Greece's olive crops. She divided these sprightly ink draughts into irregular rectangular panels. Pausing to examine her handiwork, she harrumphed. The rough arcs of the agents' lunging and roundhouse-kicking bodies played havoc with the cleaner right angles of the panels she had contained them in. Then a further idea spurred her to take up her pen once more: each drawing became ornamented with bold, jagged speed marks, shock lines, and sound effects. Wham! Thwack! Pow! Jane softly performed the "Batman" theme song to herself.  
>A distracted classmate leant over her shoulder. "Cool comic, dude."<p>

***

At their next meeting in the coffee shop, Jane was positively pulsating with ideas.  
>"I'm thinking we could publish it on-line. The college computer lab has got all the software and equipment we'd need. And if we get enough of an on-line following happening, I could even do comics of all the other Melody Powers stories. And best of all, when we're rolling in the royalties from print sales, merchandising and the Melody Powers motion picture series, we can laugh in the faces of all the cynical academics and slimy publishers who we <em>didn't<em> need to suck up to!"  
>Daria tried her best not to look underwhelmed. She failed.<br>"Comic books on the internet? I think our readership would be limited to a handful of guys so dorky that even the Trekkies would snub them. I can't see it going anywhere."  
>"Au contraire, there's a whole scene for this stuff on-line already! I found a website solely dedicated to providing server space for amateur comic book artists. I've already signed up!"<br>Daria looked back at the first few draughted pages of the comic version of "Melody Powers and the Ominous Olive Branch". True to Jane's deft hand, the work was marvellous, eerily close to the way Daria had visualised the scene in her mind. Despite the author's misgivings, Jane's surge of enthusiasm was just too damned earnest and endearing to snuff out.  
>"Well, it's your artwork. I s'pose you should be allowed to show it however you want. I just don't think the blue-spectrum glare of the computer screen would be the best venue."<br>Jane gently plucked the pages out of Daria's hand and chuckled bombastically. "You forget it's not the twentieth century any more. In the words of the immortal bard, it's the beginning of a new age!"  
>Daria sneered. "Wasn't that Lou Reed?"<br>Jane shrugged. "Hey, I'm an artist, not a literature major." She then added, her tone growing sincere, "look at this way. If Melody Powers' first foray into the larger public eye is some specialised corner of the internet, then at least the glory of digital anonymity will protect both her and you from the gaze of critical peers and the boorish mainstream hordes."  
>Daria picked at a loose seam in the sleeve of her ancient green field jacket. In a weird way, the masquerade of the interweb, crawling with the freaks, geeks and weirdoes of the world, was ideal ground for Melody's perverse and hazardous escapades.<br>"Well… okay. Just so long as you don't show it to any of our family or teachers or anything."  
>"Girl Scout's honour. Your caginess shall remain uncompromised. Any cold indifference or devestating ridicule our work gets shall come solely from perfect strangers." Jane then chuckled. "I suppose it will be good practice for the world of proessional art and literature."<br>With a smirk, Daria raised her coffee cup. "Amen to that."

***

Forsaking all her upcoming assessments, Jane fell into a fever of creation. Staking out the disused, messy desk in her dorm room, she spent hours at a time dedicated to character design, comic scripting and rough layouts. Much of the time she was not toiling away at this saw her in the computer labs— many late nights were spent learning the ins and outs of basic website building and the standard digital imaging programs. Her laid back room-mate, a mild-mannered watercolourist from Maine, was wowed by the busiest that she had ever seen Jane. Not even painting assignments in the studios had spurred such a spell of activity as this. Most evenings, she would return to the dorm to find the back of a raven bob hunched over an A3 page, the only sounds being the furious scribbling of her pencils and pens and the warped, tinny "thumpa-thumpa" of music in the artist's earphones. This was quite a different picture to the chatty, jovial girl she had gotten to know in freshman year.  
>At long last, the first chapter of "Melody Powers and the Ominous Olive Branch" was uploaded to its very own webpage. Every detail, from the design of the web graphics to the sly yet effervescent body language of the heroine to the absurd caricature of the president, had the earmark of Jane's quirky humour and slightly macabre stylings.<br>"Whaddaya think?" Jane sing-songed, showing the work to Daria on her laptop. The bespectacled girl navigated through the comic's pages, unable to find fault.  
>"I'm impressed, Lane. It seems we have come a long way since our days of collaborating on juvenile cartoons of our teachers during class."<br>"I still have that one we drew of the Lawndale High faculty as various muppets. Ah, memories," Jane snickered.  
>"So when are you going to start on the next chapter?"<br>"I'll take a bit of a break for now. Mostly to let the fans pile up. I figure I'll dish out the story bit by bit, always leaving 'em hungry for more."  
>"Diabolical," Daria remarked. "Sounds like my sister's approach to dating." She scrolled down to the bottom of the page. "So this comments box here is the depository for all death threats and venomous scorn, then?"<br>Jane nodded. "Not to mention worshipful praise and proposals of marriage. I'm gonna check back in a few days to see what feedback we've got."  
>Daria began tapping away on the keypad and hit the "Post Comment" button. Jane's eyes scanned the text.<br>"Lane, you idiot savvant. I was told to expect royalties and offers for the movie rights. Presently I will settle for you shouting me lunch. BLT and a regular mocha. Chop chop. :)"  
>"L. O. L." Jane shot back.<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Fledglings' Frustration  
>Chapter XI<strong>

And, just like that, Jane's muse vanished.  
>She supposed that the frenzy of exertion which launched the webcomic had spent it, but there had been times in the past when she had been similarly possessed by an art project without losing so much steam. It was particularly grievous to think of all the painting and drawing assignments that had piled up before her. The end of the semester was slowly looming forwards and Jane had never dreaded it more.<br>She kept checking the comments section of the webpage. Religiously, she would log on every morning before class, to find that Daria's sassy retort remained the solitary response to this ambitious project. A few weeks in, Jane's heart did a little leap of giddiness when she saw a new comment awaiting. She scrolled down with keen anticipation. Someone by the name of "rockachik2000" had written:  
>"kewl"<br>A rather righteous part of Jane upbraided herself for being so disheartened by this. Labour-intense though it had been, a comic on the internet could hardly be dubbed a magnum opus, and she really should have known better than to take the attention (or lack thereof) of disseminated web-surfers to heart. Even so, she couldn't think of the work now without feeling a pang of disenchantment, and the task of picking up her pencil again to continue the adventure had become a dreaded chore.  
>Daria, however, seemed to have washed her hands of the thing. She had wished Jane well in her creation of the work, but seeing as she was currently buried under a pile of essays, readings and abstracts, she had little time or energy for anything else. The only pleasure she could take still lay in their intermittent catch-ups, as well as the recent treat of Trent visiting the girls during the one sunny weekend that the chilly grey Autumn had afforded.<br>Bleakly, excruciatingly, Jane slaved her way through the slew of long-deferred assignments, praying for a passing grade. The practical works were the hardest— with no inspiration behind her sail, her usual standard of vibrant and imaginative art took a ghastly plunge.  
>"Oh Jane, how disappointing. These canvases are so stiff and lifeless, far beneath your potential," her oil-painting instructor tutted at the end of a indolent Friday tutorial.<br>"Creative burnout," was all Jane could mutter in response.  
>Not in the mood to be amongst her fellow artists (or within the reach of daylight), Jane retreated to her empty dorm room, and flopped down on her bed with her laptop. She sought to forget her woes by blasting away some pixelated monsters in a reverie of computer ultra-violence. Before she opened the game, however, a spell of masochism compelled her to check her messages. An e-mail from Trent, a plea for help from the embattled crown prince of Mozambique, and an automated notification that someone had left a comment on her webcomic.<br>Not setting her hopes high, she clicked on the link to the page.  
>"<em>anonymous (not logged in) posted at 22:14, 7th Nov:<em>  
>LOL, this is so awesome! I'm glad that you guys have decided to work together on something. Jane's stark and slinky work with the pen really matches Daria's noir-ish characters and storytelling style. I e-mailed it to Jodie and she loves it too. Let me know when the next part gets posted, K?<br>-Brittany 3  
>P. S. I got your e-mail addy from your profile page. Expect to hear from me ;)"<p>

***

The following night saw a message from Brittany hit Jane's inbox. She had a sad tale to tell of her increasing frustration at the demoralised professors and illiterate jocks that peopled Great Prairie State, and the single refuge she had in the small clique of nerds and nonconformists that she had infiltrated. The cheer squad had not taken kindly to this, and Brittany's status had been downgraded to that of the group's omega-dog quite rapidly. She stated that this had inspired a new level of respect for her old classmates- a first-hand taste of her newfound intellectual curiousity being ridiculed by her conventional peers made it clear just how brave they both were.  
>Jane responded to this by consoling Brittany, in a message that lauded the advantages of individuality over orthodoxy. She declared that those who had the courage to reject the party line in favour of their own reasoning and outlook had an authentic and stimulating life to look forward to, instead of the life of mediocre safety in numbers that the herd had condemned themselves to. Feeling particularly affectionate towards her, Jane suggested that they catch up together over the Winter break, somewhere away from the dank monotony of Lawndale. After sending off this 100 kilobyte affirmation, the prospect of hitting the studio to attack the oil-pastel assignment she had due on Monday seemed decidedly easier.<p>

***

One dark, frigid morning in December, Jane was found hammering her be-gloved fist soundly upon Daria's dorm-room door.  
>"This better be good, I have my first final exam in two days' time," Daria grumbled, bleary-eyed, clinging desperately on a huge mug of instant coffee. "It's not another DVD of that Australian mockumentary, is it?"<br>"Check this out," Jane announced, whisking herself over to the first available clear space and snapping open her laptop. (A languid moan of protest drifted up from one of the beds, Daria's still half-conscious room-mate.)  
>She logged onto her email account, urging Daria to click on the latest message in her inbox.<br>"Thanks for the moral support, Jane. It really makes me feel better to know other people understand what I'm going through. I suppose the only real regret is that I didn't have the guts to start thinking for myself back in high school. If I had, just imagine how close we would be now! I guess that's why despite our differences, I always kinda sought you, Daria and Jodie out. Though I couldn't admit it to myself then, you guys had the independent, inquisitive attitude that I secretly wanted for myself.  
>You know what? I compare my experience of high school to college and I'm left feeling a bit discombobulated – it's hard to believe that I am the same person. Despite everything else that's going on, I'm finding the lectures and readings FASCINATING. My dad has been down on the fact that I am an arts major (he would rather see me do something more staid and lucrative like business studies or law), but it really does feel right for me. I chose it based merely on the common conjecture that it was an 'easy' degree, but since I have applied myself, it's been one of the most satisfying challenges of my life. My grades last year weren't fantastic, but my fulfillment has come from the application of my mind rather than the outcome.<br>Despite rabid protestations from the flock, I have quit the cheer squad. It stopped being fun the moment I realised I didn't want to worship the jockocracy anymore. Angie, bless her sugary little heart, is determined to stick by me, though the others have dropped me like a stone. The last time I passed the other cheerleaders in the campus quad, I was snubbed big time. For the most part, I felt enormously relieved.  
>I've told Judith, George and Stephen all about you and Daria— they unanimously agree that you're, in their words, 'pretty damned righteous'. And by the way, Melody Powers has three more dedicated fans. I'd get cracking on the next part of the comic if I were you.<br>Your suggestion of catching up over Winter break is a fabulous one. I'm staying with my mom over Christmas. I have been in contact with her, and she loves the idea of having you, Daria and Jodie visit too. Her place is not large, so there would sofa-beds and sleeping bags involved. And unfortunately you'd have to pay for your own airfares too, but I know of a travel agent that can give students an awesome deal on return flights. Obviously, the upside is all the galleries, fashion boutiques and museums that are just outside her door!  
>Jodie's already in. Talk it over with Daria and let me know what you think.<br>_Au revoir_ for now,  
>-Britt 3"<p>

The moment Daria finished reading the missive, she shot up and returned to the mess of books and study notes littered on her bed.  
>"That's nice," she grumbled. "Tell me how it provides me with solid examples of how 'The Tale Of Genji' influenced both Asian and Western classical literature?"<br>Jane crossed her arms. "During the summer that we graduated high school, Brittany told me all about her mom Vivian. It turns out she's a succesful art dealer with her very own period town house," she stated evocatively.  
>"And?" Daria's eyes did not leave the page she was now perusing.<br>"_And_, those cheap student flights would obviously need to be headed to a town reknowned for its art scene, _n'est pas?_"  
>"Highland?" Daria flatlined.<br>Jane grinned. "_Ah, mon ami, tu êtes habile, mais tu êtes aussi très, très stupide._"  
>The study notes fell from Daria's hands.<br>"No way."  
>"Way."<p>

***

The musty, reassuring smell of take-out boxes and dirty clothes made Daria believe that, somehow, for a moment, Casa Lane had been resurrected.  
>"Your eyes still closed?" Trent mewed.<br>"I told you, _yes!_" she insisted, trying to restrain the laughter in her voice.  
>His long, large, lovely hands pushed down on her shoulders gently, and she was made to sit on a bed. Obviously she was in his room at the Moreno household.<br>His touch was withdrawn, and some fumbling, rustling sounds aggravated her waning patience.  
>"Can I open them yet?"<br>The world outside was all frost and twilight. The semester was over, and with it, the torments and tribulations of finals week. Trent had intended to chauffeur the girls back to Lawndale from Boston, but an eager Jake had jumped in first, offering the services of his Lexus and his U-Haul. While Trent couldn't blame the girls for accepting the trappings of a roomy leather interior and an indulgent parent with a wallet full of junk-food money, it left him with frustration to swallow. His original plan, after dropping Janey off at the Morgendorffers', was to whisk Daria away, luggage and all, to an undisclosed location.  
>Instead, he had to endure the clunky and awkward situation of explaining to her parents that he wanted to tak Daria out the moment she had lugged her suitcases up to her room, for a 'surprise'. Helen and Jake had given him the benefit of the doubt, but the particular look in their eyes as he dragged their overtired daughter out in the cold to his spluttering Plymouth was unnervingly stern. He caught Janey watching the discomfited couple from her bedroom upstairs, she was braying with puerile laughter.<br>Now, having finally arranged things as ideally as he could manage, he asked his girlfriend to open her eyes.  
>"Ta-da," he sang. Held up before Daria's gaze was a glossy brochure featuring photos of a rustic B&amp;B, and luxuriously-worded copy set in a lurid, swirly typeface.<br>"You've become a graphic designer for the hospitality industry," she monotoned.  
>He chuckled, and his kind eyes now met hers earnestly.<br>"I missed you so much while you were at college this semester. And I figured you could use some R&R after all that cramming."  
>Daria studied the brochure more closely. "'The Morning Glory' Bed and Breakfast?"<br>"It's in Long Island," Trent explained, "an old historic building that's part of the Walt Whitman trail. I've booked three nights there, starting tomorrow. I, uh, actually wanted to drop Janey off and take you there straight from Boston."  
>Daria blanched. "Trent, how much did this cost you?"<br>"Oh, I've saved up a fair bit from giving my guitar lessons. Not to mention living here rent-free." Here he smirked. "Think of it as a Christmas present, if you want."  
>She stared down at the brochure determinedly.<br>He went on. "I figure we can visit all the literary sites, like Whitman's birthplace and stuff, and just chill out the rest of the time. There's meant to be a really good tapas bar in the town, too…"  
>"Trent," Daria interrupted. The tone of her voice made his grin deflate. "I… I wish I had told you before you went to all this trouble."<br>A short, terrible silence. "Did I assume too much?" He asked quietly.  
>She rested a hand over his, and the apologetic look on her face helped to take some of the edge off the sting.<br>"Brittany has invited Jane, Jodie and I to stay in Paris over the Winter break. At her mother's townhouse."  
>The hurt evaporated from Trent's eyes. "Hey, just like what you wanted to do last Summer! That's awesome!"<br>A swell of bittersweet adoration for him rose up, an almost tangible, almost uncomfortable heat in her chest. If only she could be so selfless. "I suppose you could say it's a pretty lucky turn of events," she affirmed. "I'm sure Jane and I will be in touch every day."  
>He nodded leisurely. "But don't get too worried about me, you guys'll have too many galleries and museums to explore.<br>"I'll bring you back a skull from the catacombs. Could be the Spiral's new pet," she declared, and they laughed.  
>She looked down at the brochure once more, fiddling with it restively. "What about the B&amp;B?"<br>Trent shrugged, taking his blow on the chin. "Well, I can't get the booking refunded… I might just give it to Mr and Mrs Moreno. Y'know, as a thank-you for letting me live with them for the last six months. God knows they've got enough kids on their hands already."  
>Daria blessed him with a full, open smile. "That's really thoughtful."<p>

That evening, instead of running off to Long Island, Daria and Trent were invited out to dinner by Mr and Mrs Moreno, as a gesture of appreciation for their generous gift. The time-tested, demonstrative couple zealously reaffirmed Trent's sound moral character and gentility, and praised Daria's intellectual prowess and her, as they put it, 'ladylike' character.  
>"They wouldn't call me 'ladylike' if they ever saw me knock back potato chips and chocolate milk while playing 'Cannibal Fragfest III'," she asserted, as Trent drove her home that night.<br>"I think they were referring to the fact that you don't just date every guy you meet."  
>"Funnily enough, my criteria for a suitor requires a little more than drooling, testosterone-driven neanderthals with gonads for brains."<br>Trent simpered. "I knew that my coming down from the trees and developing civilisation would pay off one day."  
>"Mm. You might wanna try flossing sometime, though," she jibed. Trent raised an eyebrow at her.<br>"Just sayin'." That sardonic grin.  
>God, how he adored her.<br>They shared a kiss goodnight. As Daria went to get out of the car, she noticed the B&B brochure, stuck to the bottom of her tote bag. As she yanked at it, she noticed an untidy scrawl in faded biro on the back of the sheet. "Shopping list?" she posited, as she held it out to him. What was actually written there, however, gave her pause.  
>"'This is the female form;<br>A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot;  
>It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction!<br>I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—'"  
>She looked back up at him. "This is from Whitman's 'I Sing the Body Electric'," she stated, quizzical.<br>Trent looked somewhat sheepish. "I kinda thought I should learn some of his stuff if we were gonna do a pilgrimage to this place… I actually really like it. The lyrics are so… direct."  
>"They're not lyrics. It's a poem," she corrected affectionately. "And you wrote them down?"<br>His guilty puppy look intensified. "I wanted to memorise them. So… maybe I could, like… recite them to you or something."  
>She said no more, but leant in for a second, lingering, goodnight kiss.<p>

As the cacophony of Jane hauling half-packed luggage around and cursing gruffly ebbed down the Morgendorffer hallway, Daria tenderly placed the B&B brochure atop the modest stack of clothes she'd packed neatly in her solitary travel case. Although their imminent departure for Paris was still exhilarating, she couldn't help but feel a stab of regret. She now fully appreciated how little time she and Trent would have to spend together. Most of the Winter break would be spent with Jane, Jodie and Brittany, scoffing croissants on the Champs-Elysees, and classes would resume soon after that. She huffed, musing that the moment the normally reserved girl had mustered the nerve to kindle a truly intimate romance, life had thrown out a whole chain of situations that kept her treasured beau at arm's length.  
>She soon settled down in bed, dreading the early rising required to make the flight. She tossed and turned a little. Unable to help herself, she retrieved the brochure, turning over to the back and reading the loose scribble by streaks of bright Winter moonlight. Out there, in some other plane of existence, some unfathomably lucky Daria would have, on this night, been serenaded by her lover and the nocturnal rustle of the evergreens:<br>"This is the female form;  
>A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot;<br>It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction!  
>I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor— all falls aside but myself and it;<br>Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, the atmosphere and the clouds, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed;  
>Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it— the response likewise ungovernable;<br>Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands, all diffused— mine too diffused;  
>Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb— love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching…"<br>Sleep found her instead.


	12. Chapter 12

Fledglings' Frustration  
>Chapter XII<p>

The metallic tang of instant coffee, the dull thrum of the Lexus' engine as it zoomed along the freeway, and the clanging, gaping echoes of the airport terminal all seemed to meld into one foggy, sleep-deprived haze. The girls enjoyed a happy reunion with Brittany and Jodie, in spite of their weariness. The ex-cheerleader's new hair colour was duly remarked upon.  
>Stiflingly dry cabin air, aching appendages, and a seemingly endless playlist of old sitcoms. Ten excruciatingly muddled hours later, they found themselves in France. The novelty of the high school chums catching up with each other had quickly eroded. Now, as they struggled through customs at Charles De Gaulle International Airport, a crackling, frazzled collective sulk decimated any chance of happiness. Oh, for a hot shower and a comfy armchair.<br>"Brittany! _Ma cher!_"  
>And there she was.<br>Madamoiselle Vivian Radcliffe, art dealer extraordinaire, was a masterwork in black fingernails, beaded jewellery and entirely unashamed _joie de vivre_. Her large fluid gestures seemed too enthusiastic to be affectations, they were more similar to the earnest, guileless mannerisms of young children.  
>"Mom!" Brittany bounded into her mother's awaiting arms. "It's so good to see you, I have <em>so much<em> to tell you about."  
>Vivian twirled a lock of her daughter's now cherry-red hair round her finger. "My, my, what a daring new look we have! Nary a trace of pastels or polo shirts!"<br>"You like?" Brittany span around, her unruly ponytail bouncing briskly along with her.  
>"Trés punk!" Responded her mother.<br>Introductions were made, the girls were all kissed on the cheek, and Vivian's eyes lit up when they fell upon Jane. "So you are the artist! Brittany has shown me that on-line graphic novel of yours. You are very talented, my dear. Would I be right in saying you are a fan of Edmund Dulac?"  
>"How did you know?" Jane asked, feeling a tad perkier herself.<br>"I can see the influence," Vivian remarked. "even your most ordinary illustrations have a touch of wonderfully grotesque folklore about them. I hope I can trouble you to see some more of your work while you're over here."  
>Behind Vivian, a tall, sober-suited monolith of a man drew up to the group. <em>"Vivian,"<em> he rumbled in a husky bass voice, _"Sommes-nous prêts à rentrer chez eux?"_  
><em>"Ah, oui, mon petite,"<em> she told him, and turned to the girls. "This is Stefán, my business partner and my beau. _Stefán, Ce sont des amis de Brittany: Jodie, Daria, et Jane. Jane est l'artiste qui a dessiné qui bande dessinée!"_  
>Stefán's forbidding features broke into a delighted smile, and he shook Jane's hand vigorously with his own meaty mitt.<br>_"Ah, oui, oui! Trés bien! Comment allez-vous?"_  
>"Err… <em>bien, merci,"<em> Jane stuttered.  
>They clambered into Stefán's silver Peugeot as the man himself hauled their luggage into the trunk. As he took the driver's seat, fighting his way through metropolitan traffic, Vivian and Brittany updated each other on family events as the other girls dozed in the back.<br>Saint-Germain-des-Prés was an urban fairytale of a neighbourhood, boasting terrace after terrace of cafés, boutiques and galleries. Its charm was a little dulled by the collective fatigue of the group, and the true gratification of the morning was crashing upon the generous sofa and lounge chairs of Vivian's chic _salon,_ as the hostess laid out a generous brunch for the girls. They tucked into the piles of croissants and brioche, and Vivian opened the heavy red drapes. Winter sunlight dripped into the room through the naked, spindly chestnut trees.  
>While Jane, Daria and Brittany were looking forward to a solid day of lazing about the townhouse, Jodie wasted no time in whipping out her itinerary notebook, interrogating Vivian and Stefán about the best restaurants and shopping that could be enjoyed on a student budget. As the furious scribbling of her pen continued through the afternoon, Daria and Brittany remained on the sofa, making fun of the schlocky programmes on TV, while Jane silently ambled about the house, taking in the impressive collection of art gracing the walls.<br>In particular, her attention was arrested by an expressionist seascape: turgid dark waters captured in harsh jagged lines, a stoic cormorant perched on a rock, a merciless sickle moon floated above her.  
>"Marvellous, isn't it?" Came Vivian's voice from behind. "That was painted by a young artist who had come here from Croatia. Her portfolio was almost entirely sold within a week of it hitting the gallery."<br>"Top earner, huh?" Jane murmured, still absorbing the artwork.  
>"Well, initially at least," Vivian replied. "I'm sorry to say that her output while in Paris was a meagre shadow of her usual creations. Her paintings became lifeless and affected. It didn't take me long to realise why: the girl was living on her own in a squalid one-room apartment, friendless, pining for her loved ones and her homeland. Since returning to her parents' place, she has reported to me that her creative energies are flowing again. I've seen photos of some of her new work and am just now in the process of having it shipped here for sale."<br>Jane's eyes still didn't leave the undulating lines of the seascape, but she registered puzzlement at Vivian's tale. "Hm. Who would have guessed that your muse could dry up in a place like Paris?"  
>A warmth entered the older woman's voice. "Location means nothing to the heart. It wants what it wants. Come, I must insist upon seeing some of your own work."<br>Jodie, her notebook, and her mass of travel guides and brochures were budged up along the dining table as Vivian and Jane sat down. After rummaging through an overstuffed backpack, the young artist tracked down a weathered A3 sketchbook, almost all of its pages filled with work.  
>"Some of that's just lecture notes and random doodles, don't expect too much," she warned.<br>As Vivian immersed herself in the contents of the book, Jane fell into watching TV with the others. An old Jerry Lewis film, dubbed into French, bumbled and stumbled across the screen.  
>"So I guess this is the kind of sophistication and classic artistry we can expect to be exposed to while in France," Daria monotoned as her tired eyes followed the image of the actor's frenetic slapstick.<br>"Watch out, he's about to navigate the slippery floor," announced Jane.  
>Brittany spoke up. "You know, as cheesy as this is, I can't help but love it."<br>Daria smirked at her. "Oy, lady."  
>"Oh, my!"<br>Vivian had turned to a well-loved page towards the back of Jane's sketchbook, swarthy with graphite. Her eyes gleefully roved across the drawing which graced it.  
>"This portrait is so full of life… he's gruesome and exquisite! I see such discernment and sadness sparkling in those fierce dark eyes… Jane, this is remarkable. Was it done from life?"<br>The girls' interest was piqued, and they gathered around.  
>"From memory, actually," Jane responded.<br>"I would suggest you make this a study for a painting. Any chance of getting the model to sit for you?"  
>The artist shook her head. "He moved away from town. I actually drew that picture after we had said goodbye." A wisp of wistfulness had stolen into her voice.<br>Daria examined the drawing. "Why Mister Demartino?"  
>"Because he was fascinating!" Jane's tone now warmed somewhat. "Sometimes, during our shifts together, he would knock me for six with some keen insight into my nature. It always took me by surprise how easy it was for me to open up to him. We'd just get to chatting, and I felt so comfortable, I could say exactly what I thought… He just seemed to lap it up, without being a condescending jerk or humouring me or anything. And… he'd fix me with this look that seemed to pierce right into the centre of me. It took me so off guard. I really think he was one of the few people who ever actually… y'know, <em>got<em> me."  
>Vivian seemed quite affected by this description. "And where is he now?" She queried.<br>Jane shrugged heavily. "God knows."  
>"Mister Demartino was our high school history teacher," Brittany informed her mother.<br>"He was also a high-strung, rage-aholic misanthrope," Daria added pointedly.  
>"That was back at school. I can't blame him for that. But once he had the guts to pursue another path, I got to see a whole other side of him." Jane did her best to be patient with her friend. Daria could not come up with a response.<br>Vivian declared her praise once more. "Well. I do think you should develop this work. It possesses such a compelling blend of earthy physicality and an unreal poignancy. It's beautiful. Perhaps you could track down Mister Demartino's contact details, and ask for permission to exhibit his likeness?"  
>Jane gave a small smile. "No. I think he would already be perfectly happy for me to do so."<p>

***

And so, the four young women toured Paris.  
>Jodie made sure to drag her companions to every cultural landmark of consequence. They squeezed through the crowd at the Louvre to get a glimpse of the glass-encased Mona Lisa, they trudged miserably up the many, many stairs of the Eiffel Tower (braving drizzle and a chilling Winter wind, at that), they window-shopped at the Galeries Lafayette for luxury items they could not possibly afford – with the exception of the souvenir tote bag that Brittany scored. A perfectly enormous amount of photos were taken, and the feeling of aching calf-muscles and sore feet became a constant companion. But also, thankfully, did the food.<br>The merciful brunches, lunches and dinners at a delightful succession of cafés and bistros easily generated the greatest share of mirth (Vivian and Stefan intimately knew all of Paris' best kept gastronomical secrets). The girls shovelled down decadent pastries and cups of freshly brewed, sugar-laced café au lait, amidst animated chatter and wisecracking, soaking in the unique atmosphere of each venue. Evening meals consisted of hearty peasant dishes like coq au vin and boeuf bourginon, and sometimes a bottle of wine – the group was well warmed up against the frigid December nights. Jane noted with gratification that Daria smiled and laughed more often during these convivial meals – however, bringing up the subject of Trent would always deflate her once more. Jane recalled the enthusiasm with which she and Daria had originally schemed together over visiting the city of lights. But now, that simple, quiet B&B getaway on Long Island seemed to be the exotic, romantic, regrettably unreachable shangri-la.

"Jodie, do we _have_ to do this _tonight_? It's Christmas Eve!" Brittany, the least winded of the victims, protested.  
>Ever the conscientious tour guide, Jodie's rhythmic tread up the steps of Montmartre did not fail. Without turning around she reasoned:<br>"Exactly. We leave for Lawndale on the second of January. Between then and now, most of the major attractions will be shut, or at least keep short opening hours. We need to see as much as we can!"  
>It had been another tiring, and most productive, day of sight-seeing. It was well past sunset. The agenda for that evening was a dinner at one of Montmartre's tamer cabaret clubs, after a visit to the Place du Tertre and a photo op beneath the round ivory domes of the Basilica du Sacré-Cœur. No street artists, pastry stands or milling, cavorting pleasure-seekers crossed their path. The frigid Winter air bit at every exposed inch of skin, and the frost that was slowly beginning to cake the cobblestones made the ascent up the hill even more of a trial. But wafting down from the summit came the gentle candlelight that illuminated the evening Mass, and at intervals, the hushed, echoed hymns of the parishioners.<br>Jane gripped Daria's hand, heroically heaving her up the final flight of stairs. Being a recreational jogger had a few day-to-day advantages. The bespectacled girl, unused to exercise of any sort, collapsed upon the nearest public bench. Though she was too breathless to speak, she was palpably cursing Jodie's name. Brittany joined her, sweetly offering a draught from a thermos decorated with a cute, be-ribboned cartoon skull.  
>Jane got her bearings and looked about. The softly sloping curve of the grass gave way to the fantastical grandeur of the perfect white church, a pearl illuminated against the dark sky. There was something satisfying in the quiet stillness of the near-abandoned scene— gentle, though a little eerie, and most certainly heavenly. The artist silently regretted not bringing her sketchbook with her, and prayed that there would be a strong enough impression upon her memory to draw this scene later.<br>When all the girls were finally calm and collected, Jodie whipped out her silvery digital camera for a round of happy snaps. By now, it was a well rehearsed piece of tourist choreography. First: Jane, Daria and Brittany. Then: Jodie, Jane and Daria. And then: Brittany, Jodie and Jane. Some rather arty shots were taken of Brittany, Jodie and Daria. Finally, with the time-release function, some candid snaps of all four girls making faces and giving each other bunny ears. Brittany wore Daria's glasses while Jane crouched behind Jodie, giving her friend the Vishnu-esque effect of an extra pair of arms. All the while, the impassive, rotund face of Sacré-Cœur sailed above them in the background.  
>"Can we go eat now?" Came Daria's protest, at the close of the routine.<br>Jodie checked her watch. "Our reservation is for seven, but I suppose we can afford to dawdle a bit and take in the neighbourhood."  
>"Can we sidle, wander and dilly-dally, too?" Brittany mocked. (Spending so much time around Daria had further entrenched her new love affair with smart-assery.)<br>As the others began to sidle, wander and dilly-dally their way along the street, Jane lingered, staring absently out at the sweeping cityscape that faced Sacré-Cœur, fairyish Parisian lights twinkling back at her through the thick, tranquil chill. The beauty of this prospect was fleeting and singular, like the play of light in an Impressionist's masterpiece. She regretted the necessity to leave it.  
>Huffing a great, impetuous stream of vapour, she began dragging her trainer-clad feet along the pavement. Her eyes remained on the wonder of the nocturnal city, and she started when her foot made contact with something unseen.<br>Kneeling down, she discovered a well-loved, dog-eared paperback on the ground, grazed by her shoe. Picking it up, she turned it over in her hands, expecting the front cover to bear a some ponderous French title.  
>"The Secret Garden: by Frances Hodgson Burnett"<br>Jane smiled. Though no Daria Morgendorffer, she had read this particular book in her youth, and despite herself, enjoyed it immensely. Perhaps it would be a far greater keepsake than any mass-produced souvenir.  
><em>"Ne pas toucher mon livre!"<em> cried a high, fine, indignant voice.  
>In the road stood a little girl of about eight or nine. Dressed in a voluminous vintage coat with a lace trim, she wore her hair long, and stared right into Jane's face with dark, startlingly fierce eyes.<br>"Madison!"  
>Further away, in the shadows, came the hurried footfalls of a man in a trenchcoat, presumably the child's father.<br>"Daddy! That girl was the one who stole my 'Secret Garden'! I told her off in perfect French!"  
>"Are you sure of that, my child? You must not accuse someone of theft until…"<br>The man stopped beneath a flickering streetlight, and likewise stared right into Jane's face with dark, startlingly fierce eyes.  
>"Well… It appears that the fates are determined to throw us together once more, Ms. Lane."<br>Jane could not move. She felt her pulse hammering madly in her neck and her wrist and her breast. It had begun to snow lightly.  
>"OmiGOSH! Mister D! What are YOU doing here!?" Brittany's squeak heralded the reoccurrence of linear time.<br>A familiar stoniness came across Demartino's features as he took notice of Jane's three companions, who had doubled back to collect her.  
>"Ms. Taylor. I am holiday-making from my new home in Antwerp. I can only assume you ladies are doing the same?"<br>"Yeah, I invited Jane, Jodie and Daria to come stay with my Mom over Christmas," Brittany explained.  
>The little girl in the vintage overcoat had not taken her eyes from Jane.<br>"What are you doing with my book?"  
>"Oh, um… sorry." Jane handed it to the girl. "I just found it in the street."<br>Demartino turned his eyes to the child. "Madison, you must be more careful with both your prized possessions, _and_ your accusations."  
>Madison pouted. "Sorry Daddy."<br>"It's alright, my dear." A somewhat jarring ray of affection trickled into the man's expression as he placed a large, gentle hand on his daughter's shoulder.  
>"I didn't know you were a father," Jane said lamely.<br>"A proud one. I am afforded a visit from my magnificent daughter during most school holidays, whilst her mother and her new husband go cavorting in Cabo San Lucas. I thought a trip to Paris would be a greater Christmas gift for a delicate, cultured girl than the grimy docks of Antwerp. So here we are."  
>"I play piano," Madison boasted.<br>"At an impressive competition level, too." Demartino added. "Her mother has made sure of that."  
>"Where are you staying?" Jane blurted.<br>Something disconcerting passed across Demartino's face, he did not answer right away.  
>"I mean, if you have any time spare, it'd be nice to catch up… and hang out, y'know." Jane's face felt blazing hot.<br>"Oh, yeah! What about the painting, Jane? You could totally do it!" Turning to Demartino again, she clarifed: "My mom is an art dealer, and she saw the portrait that Jane drew of you. She really loved it— I mean _really_ loved it, said it was a beautiful mix of beastliness and poignancy or something— and wants Jane to make it a painting. Maybe you can sit for it now, Mister D!"  
>Demartino listened with more curiosity than he had ever afforded Brittany before. Yet, for some reason, the air of moroseness in him did not lift.<br>"Is it so? Well, then, I suppose I must be your compliant model, Ms. Lane," he surmised slowly.  
>They exchanged addresses, and agreed to meet for lunch at a café in Saint-Germain-des-Prés on the 26th. After parting, the other three girls quickly turned their attentions to talk of Christmas morning. Jane remained silent, and barely tasted the steak frites she ordered for dinner.<br>***


End file.
